Betrayal
by Deb3
Summary: 22nd in the Fearful Symmetry series. A familiar name comes back into Calleigh's life, but it is Horatio's actions that disturb her more.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Betrayal

Rating: T

Disclaimer: The characters except Rosalind and obvious additions for the plot are not mine. I wish they were. I don't even watch the TV show anymore, so this is based on the original (read that season one) incarnation of those characters that aren't mine, as well as development I've added to them for the sake of the series. I am making no monetary profit from this story.

Series: This is the 22nd in the Fearful Symmetry series. Fearful Symmetry, Can't Fight This Feeling, Gold Medals, Surprises, Honeymoon, Blackout, the Hopes and Fears, Anniversary, Framed, Sight for Sore Eyes, Trials and Tribbulations, Premonition, Do No Harm, the CSI Who Loved Me, Complications, Yet to Be, More Deadly, Photo Finish, the Caine Mutiny, Calleighella, Swan Song, and Betrayal.

A/N: This story is to be updated on no particular timetable, just as I have time and inclination. Time you can't affect, as I have several other irons in the fire, many of which take priority over this. Inclination you definitely can affect. I already know the story and the ending; writing it down is purely for the benefit of readers. If you want more, say so.

(H/C)

"No fellow can be on the job all the time."

Samuel Hopkins Adams

(H/C)

The sound of the door opening woke Calleigh from the half-dream to the reality, and she sighed in contentment. Well-known footsteps in two versions crossed the living room to the couch, and she smiled sleepily at her family as she pushed herself up on one elbow, her blanket falling away. "Hey."

"Mama!" Rosalind scrambled up onto the couch and into Calleigh's lap.

"How are you feeling?" Horatio bent over the couch to kiss Calleigh on the forehead.

"Much better, just still a little tired. I'm fine, Horatio. It was just the bug." She hugged Rosalind. "How was your day, Angel?" Rosalind launched into an enthusiastic description of what had happened at daycare, and Calleigh and Horatio smiled at each other. It was good to see Rosalind interactive and full of life again. She had gotten sick the previous Saturday morning and had been pretty miserable most of the weekend. Rosalind's version of being miserable, like her father's, was to retreat into a shell and suffer in silence. Calleigh's version was to stubbornly deny anything was wrong, a tactic that had led to her argument with Horatio after Rosalind had been generous enough to pass the virus along to her mother Sunday night.

Horatio removed his gun and badge, locking them securely in their drawer in the desk. He returned to sit on the edge of the couch, waiting patiently for Rosalind to wind down. As soon as Rosalind ran out of breath, he smoothly stepped into the gap. "I talked to Dana at daycare. She said several of the kids have been out sick the last week. Same symptoms, a fever and cough for a day or so. That's definitely where she picked it up."

"And passed it on," Calleigh sighed. "Did those bullet casings from the beach shooting get processed? What about the Rodriguez case?"

"We got along just fine, Cal. The beach shooting is solved, and the trial for Rodriguez got a continuance, like I figured it would. Anything with Tolbert as a defense attorney isn't going to trial on the first four versions of the court date, at least."

"Still, what if it had?"

Horatio refused to have the whole debate again in retrospect, having already been through this last night and this morning. "If it hadn't, you probably still wouldn't have been called today. Anyway, the DA could have just changed the order of witnesses. It's not a crime to be sick, Calleigh."

"I wasn't that sick." She met his quirked eyebrow with a defiant stare, then relaxed, laughing. "Okay, maybe I was sick, but I'm feeling a lot better now. I'm sure I'll be fine by tomorrow morning."

"We'll see." Even if her fever was gone, Horatio wanted further observation and evidence.

Rosalind abruptly slid down her mother's side and off the couch. "Hope? Kitty, kitty, kitty." She bounded down the hall in search of her favorite playmate.

"She seems fully recovered, at least," Calleigh said. "She had me worried for a bit."

"Kids get viruses, Cal. It goes with the territory."

"Oh, right, and you weren't worried."

He grinned at her. "Guilty as charged. You're worth worrying about, both of you." He shifted position over to the recliner and kicked his shoes off, an action that caught her attention immediately. He usually bent and untied them.

"Long day?"

"Hard one. The beach shooting was revenge for cheating, and it was a tough interview."

"You mean her husband killed her?"

"No, the other man's wife did."

Calleigh shook her head. "Why not go after her own husband, too?"

Horatio shook his head. "Most criminals don't specialize in logic." He shivered slightly, remembering the interview where he had broken her. "She just kept saying, 'He is mine.' The way she said it made him sound like property, not a person. Then, when she finally broke, she also confessed to two other murders, one in process but without strong clues, one in the dead file. Both of those people had just looked at him, or she thought they did, anyway. To her mind, it was absolutely justified. She was proud of it."

Calleigh shivered herself. "I see what you mean about the day. Do you think she'll plead insanity?"

"I don't know. One of those people with no moral brakes, but is that insanity? She knew what she was doing." He rolled his head from side to side, trying to release the tension in his shoulders, and Calleigh got up and came around behind the chair to work out the knots for him. He closed his eyes and leaned back, and she was just starting to feel him relax when Rosalind scampered back down the hall with Hope.

"Let's eat!" she suggested.

Horatio's eyes snapped open again. "I'm sorry, Angel. I lost track of the time. Lie back down, Cal. I'll fix it."

"I'm fine, Horatio, and you're tired. Just sit there for a while and unwind."

He pulled away from her hands and stood up. "No. You're just getting over being sick. I'll help, at least."

She grinned at him. "Compromise?"

"Compromise." They shook hands on it, and Rosalind eagerly preceded them into the kitchen.

Calleigh was glad to find her appetite returning, thinking of all the work waiting for her back at CSI. She absolutely had to go into work tomorrow. Rosalind was hungry, too, and seemed completely back to her usual self. After the meal, they settled into a comfortable huddle on the couch, three people and one cat, and watched a movie, Beauty and the Beast, by Rosalind's request. She loved the horse. Calleigh kept finding her eyelids drooping, though, and when Horatio stood up, she jolted into wakefulness. "I wasn't asleep," she objected.

He smiled at her, not believing it for a minute. "Rosalind is. I'll get her ready for bed." He headed back for the nursery with their sleeping daughter in his arms, and Calleigh closed her eyes again, listening to his footsteps. How was it possible to love footsteps? Because they were his.

Her husband. Her daughter. They were hers, not as property, but as treasure. She still found herself wondering sometimes how she could have possibly wound up so happy, considering her childhood. How many times had she wondered as a girl if anything would ever go right, if there actually were good people, if life really was worth living? Too many to count. All of her childhood – except one person – had been a waking nightmare, but somehow, she had ended up living the dream. "Wouldn't change anything," she mumbled sleepily, drifting off again.

"What was that?" Horatio materialized at her side.

"I was just thinking, I wouldn't change anything about my life. Not even the first part. Not since it led me to this."

He kissed her. "I wouldn't either, Calleigh. Now, let's get you to bed." He started to pick her up, and she squirmed free in protest.

"I can walk, Handsome, and you're as tired as I am. You actually worked today."

"So did you."

"Hardly," she retorted, still somewhat annoyed at her weakness.

"You worked on getting well. You need to be sure finish the job, too." He didn't try to pick her up again, though. "Come on, Cal, let's go to bed." Side by side, they walked down the hall.

(H/C)

The alarm clock buzzed like an annoyed bumblebee, and Calleigh hit it blindly, trying to silence the offensive instrument. Just in the middle of a good dream, too. She burrowed back under the covers and was drifting off again when a thought struck. Why hadn't Horatio turned off the clock as he usually did? That thought was a better call to action than the alarm had been, and she opened her eyes, committing herself to the day, and sat up. The other side of the bed was empty, but she couldn't hear the shower running. "Horatio?" No answer. She stood up, wrapped herself in her robe, and slipped on her house shoes.

Rosalind was still asleep, but she was beginning to make the vague musical sounds occasionally that Calleigh knew meant she would wake up shortly. No sign of Horatio, though. She checked the bathroom, but the open door was its own message. Finally, she found him in the living room, curled on the couch in his robe, restlessly asleep. "Morning, Handsome. What are you sleeping on the couch for? Got a guilty conscience?" Her light tone shattered into understanding as she bent over to kiss him. He was running a fever.

He opened his eyes, flinching against the early sunlight through the glass doors that led to the beach, and Calleigh shifted slightly, blocking it for him with her body. "Morning." The greeting broke down into coughing, and he smiled weakly at her accusing stare. "I think Rosalind gave me her bug, too," he admitted as soon as he could speak again.

"Horatio, what are you doing out here? You ought to be in bed. You at least ought to have a blanket or something."

His eyes fell. "You needed your sleep. You're just getting over it yourself."

"So you decided to freeze out here all night just so you wouldn't disturb me. Horatio Caine, sometimes you can be absolutely infuriating." She stalked back to their bedroom and opened the closet, fetching the blanket she had used yesterday from the stack of spares. Coming back down the hall, she could hear him coughing again. "How long have you been out here?" She tucked the blanket warmly around him, her gentle movements completely at odds with her annoyed tone.

"Since midnight. Thanks, Calleigh." He sank back into the couch, closing his eyes again, and Calleigh went into the kitchen, her anger easily redirecting to herself as she fixed a cup of hot tea. He had been up most of the night, and she hadn't even missed him. She really must have been sleeping soundly. Just getting over being sick or not, she should have noticed sooner.

Rosalind's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Mama? Dada?"

"Just a minute, Angel," she called. She marched back into the living room just as Horatio was sitting up, pushing the blanket aside. "Horatio, if you get up, I'll shoot you. Here, take this." She handed him the cup of tea along with two Tylenol, glaring at him until he reluctantly settled back into the cushions.

"Mama?"

"Coming." Calleigh hurried down the hall into the nursery. "Good morning, Angel." She picked her daughter up out of the crib and started getting her dressed.

"Morning," Rosalind sang. "Dada?"

"He's sick, Rosalind. Like you were a few days ago. We need to just let him rest, okay?"

"Okay." Rosalind's look of concern was so much like Horatio's that Calleigh had to laugh. She set her daughter on the floor, and Rosalind tiptoed down the hall with exaggerated care, almost like a cartoon character, obviously trying not to disturb her father.

Her father was sitting up on the couch again, looking like he was debating whether getting up the rest of the way would be worth facing Calleigh's ire. "Good morning, Angel."

Rosalind hesitated in the middle of tiptoeing into the living room. "Not asleep?"

"Do I look asleep? Come here." Horatio held his arms out to her and promptly went into another coughing fit. Rosalind came across to climb onto his chest, but he saw the concern in the blue eyes. "I'm fine, Angel. Just a little virus. I'll be as good as new tomorrow, same as you are. Maybe even before then. In fact, I'm feeling better already."

Calleigh sighed. "Rosalind, can you help me out here?"

Rosalind perked up instantly, looking up at her mother. She had a helpful nature, something that Horatio and Calleigh both credited the other for contributing to her personality. "Okay."

"I need to take a shower and get ready for work, Angel, and Dada needs to lie there and not get up and pretend nothing's wrong. I need you to watch him, okay? I'll leave the bathroom door open, and if he moves, you come tell me. Understand?"

"Yes," Rosalind said. "Then breakfast?"

"Right. Then breakfast. This will just take a few minutes. You watch him, Rosalind, and don't let him move."

"That's not fair," said Horatio, sitting up straighter, and Rosalind pushed a small hand into his chest.

"Down, Dada!" The imperative had the ring of a miniature Calleigh, making both of Rosalind's parents laugh.

"Life's not fair," Calleigh reminded him. "Stay, Horatio. Back in a few minutes, Rosalind." She hurried through the shower and getting dressed as much as she could. Normally, one of them would fix breakfast while the other showered, but today obviously wasn't normally. She snatched the comb through her hair quickly and exited the bathroom to find Rosalind still on duty and Horatio lying back on the couch, firmly pinned. "Thank you, Angel. Now, I'll fix breakfast for us. Do you feel like eating anything, Horatio?" Having had the virus herself, she doubted it. It wasn't a stomach flu, but the fever certainly seemed to burn out appetite. Come to think of it, in retrospect, he hadn't eaten much last night, which she had put down to mere tiredness.

"No, thanks, Calleigh. I'm not hungry."

"That's okay. Watch him for me, Rosalind." She worked around the kitchen quickly and efficiently, enjoying the occasional outbursts from the other room. If Horatio so much as shifted position, Rosalind chewed him out for it. "Okay, Angel, come and eat."

Rosalind came to the open archway into the kitchen. "Dada?"

"We'll just listen for him. Come on, you need to get ready for the day." Rosalind trotted the rest of the way into the kitchen, and Calleigh fed both of them in turn, keeping one ear cocked to the living room. She figured that Horatio would settle down and resign himself to being sick once they had left, but at the moment, deprived of helping her with all the morning routines, he was feeling guilty. Nothing quite bothered him as much as responsibilities he felt he wasn't meeting.

"Leave the dishes. I'll do them later," he called as they finished eating.

"Not a chance." She quickly rinsed them and filled the dishwasher, then went back into the living room to find Horatio once more pinned by his personal watchdog.

"Okay, Rosalind, time to go."

Rosalind looked back at her reluctantly. "Who watch?"

Horatio chuckled and went into another coughing fit. "See what you've started, Cal?"

"He'll be okay, Rosalind. He just needs to rest today, and once we're gone, he'll drop the front and admit it." She gathered her own badge and gun.

"Are you sure you're feeling okay?" Horatio asked.

"I'm feeling much better, thank you. And all because you made me stay home yesterday and not be a stubborn idiot and try to work. You remember that, Horatio."

He sighed. "I won't do anything unless I start feeling better."

"You won't do anything at all. I'm taking your car keys, and if I even see your shadow at CSI, I'll bring you back home after picking up Rosalind and let her watch you the rest of the day." She bent over to kiss him, noting worriedly that the Tylenol didn't seem to have made any difference yet. His fever seemed higher than before. "Drink plenty of fluids and take it easy today, Horatio. That's an order." She was quoting his own words from the morning before, and he obviously recognized them. "Equal ground, no discrimination. If I have to stay home when I'm sick, so do you."

"Fair enough," he agreed, finally settling back and admitting weakness. He really did look like he felt lousy. "I'll be fine, Calleigh. About the cases, be sure . . ."

She silenced the instructions by kissing him again. "Horatio, whatever happens at CSI today, I am absolutely capable of dealing with it myself."

He grinned at her. "I have no doubt." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "See you tonight."

"See you tonight. Come on, Rosalind."

Rosalind still hesitated for a minute, then turned back to her father. "Stay there, Dada!" she said firmly. Laughing, Calleigh took her daughter's hand and went out to face the day.


	2. Chapter 2

"Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take."

T. S. Eliot

(H/C)

Calleigh swept into CSI with the determined tread of someone bent on atoning for the grave sin of having been sick the day before. She checked into Ballistics first, glancing through the work and determining easily what hadn't been touched since Friday, what had been handled by Horatio, and what had been handled by others. If only everyone were as efficient as he was. She straightened out three misfiled reports in progress, squared up a disheveled stack, then headed for Horatio's office to find out if anything urgent was waiting there. She would simply have to be both of them today.

She nearly mowed down Alexx on the stairs, and the ME quickly flattened against the railing as Calleigh trotted up them past her. "Whoa, honey. What's the rush? Trying to make up for being gone yesterday?"

Calleigh sighed and stopped. "Why should I do that? Everybody gets sick sometimes."

"But it still annoyed you."

"Alexx, do you ever get tired of being right?"

Alexx only smiled at her, then looked up to the still-darkened office. "Where's Horatio?"

"It's his turn to have the flu today. This is one of the joys of having a child that nobody told me about in advance; they share their bugs with you."

Alexx nodded in sympathetic amusement. "Tell me about it. Well, the family that's sick together sticks together."

Calleigh laughed. "You should have seen Rosalind this morning. Horatio spent the whole night on the couch after he got sick, just to let me sleep." Alexx sighed in familiar exasperation. "Anyway, of course, that meant he was right in the middle of us getting ready, and he tried to get up and do his part helping me out this morning, so I asked Rosalind to watch him and not let him move. She took me a bit too literally."

Alexx grinned. "I would have loved to see that."

"She's amazing, Alexx. Everybody always told me kids go through this selfish stage early on and don't think of anybody else for the first few years, but she isn't like that at all."

"She is something special," Alexx agreed.

Calleigh abruptly remembered her mission and glanced at her watch. "I'd better get on with the day. I'm being two people."

Alexx nodded. "Have fun," she said.

"That isn't the point of this job." Calleigh trotted on up the stairs, forcing her short legs to take them two at a time.

(H/C)

Calleigh had just finished sifting through the paperwork that had sprouted on Horatio's desk overnight when her pager went off. Dispatch. So much for catching up in the lab today. She wondered if criminals ever got sick.

Speed and Eric met her at the elevator. "Where's H?" Speed asked.

"Sick. I'm in charge today."

Eric grinned and stepped back as the elevator door opened, letting her enter first. "Well, from what I heard, it's a shooting."

"Speaking of shooting, Speed, what were you doing in the ballistics lab yesterday with my paperwork?"

"Looking for a report. How did you know I'd been there?"

"All the files in that stack were left askew for the first two-thirds. Somebody fished through, found what he wanted, and didn't straighten them back out. Even the non file straighteners in CSI know that I like files straight, so it was either deliberate, which isn't likely, or it was somebody who didn't notice they were straight to begin with, which leaves Speedle."

Eric flashed his grin as the elevator door opened again, letting them out. "Give up, Speedle. The evidence is too good."

Speed shrugged. "If you arrest me, though, who's going to do trace at the scene?"

Calleigh marched ahead of them toward a CSI Hummer. "Just stay out of Ballistics when I've not there, okay? Send Horatio, or at least send Eric."

"Yes, Your Highness," Speed replied, drowning out Eric's retort of "Gee, thanks." In friendly banter, the three CSIs piled into the Hummer.

(H/C)

Tripp was already at the crime scene, and all banter died as the CSIs exited the Hummer and went to join him. Already, trained minds were gathering evidence. The house was a small but well-built brick style, one of those houses in a cookie-cutter neighborhood where all were built from the same pattern. Some effort had been made to individualize this one. The landscaping of the small yard was quite well done, almost professional, and a birdbath was in the middle. The mailbox had a sailboat painted on the side. The homey effect was shattered by the yellow crime scene tape. Tripp stood in the front door, and a bustle of activity could be sensed behind him. He took inventory and raised an eyebrow wordlessly as the three approached.

"He's sick," Calleigh replied. "What have we got?"

"Vic's name is Angelina Mitchell. Her husband had been off on a long weekend and just got back this morning, and he found her dead. Bullets all over the bedroom. Not pretty in there. Whoever took her out went way past what he had to."

"Or she," replied Eric, remembering yesterday's beach case.

"Or she," Tripp admitted. "Winslow Mitchell, the husband, says he got back from his trip about 10:00 a.m., went in, didn't see anything wrong until he got to the bedroom. We're checking with neighbors. There are messages on the answering machine from Sunday. Calleigh, you okay?"

Calleigh's professionally efficient air had slipped into almost daydreaming. "Um, yeah, sorry. I knew somebody named Winslow Mitchell once. It can't be the same one, though."

"Why not?" Speed asked.

"The one I knew is dead."

"Good reason."

Calleigh shook off the cloak of memories. "All right, do we have a TOD?"

"Alexx isn't here with the van yet, but the vic seems room temperature, and rigor has worn off."

"Over 30 hours, then," Eric commented.

"Right. We're guessing Sunday, but that's your job."

"Wrong," Calleigh replied, echoing Horatio. "We don't guess." She pushed past Tripp into the house. The living room was neat but lived in. She traced a finger across a slightly dusty surface. "Wonder if she always did dusting on a specific day. This is too clean to be neglected or hit and miss, but it does need dusting. Might help us with TOD."

"Her husband would know," Eric suggested.

"Let's see if we have anything else to ask him first." She walked around the room slowly, scanning, wishing for Horatio's ability to spot anything out of place. This wasn't the crime room, but that didn't mean it couldn't give clues. Nothing seemed wrong here. Calleigh glanced at the books in the bookcase at the end of the room. Military, sailing, and landscaping, as well as a few murder mysteries tucked on the end of the bottom shelf, like the reader felt guilty about this concession to pleasure instead of useful books. She advanced on into the kitchen, which gave the same impression of a neat housekeeper but not a fanatical one. Finally, she headed to the bedroom, marked by the officer standing guard in the doorway.

Even with Tripp's preparation, she jolted to a stop briefly. This wasn't murder; it was slaughter, almost like an animal. The body was riddled with bullets, mostly in the head and upper torso. The face was obliterated. Calleigh swallowed and made herself approach the bed, careful where she stepped to avoid destroying evidence. She reached out toward the pillowcase with a gloved hand, noting the spatter and the tiny holes. "Shotgun," she said. "He used a shotgun at close range. No, wait." She studied the woman more closely, trying for clinical detachment. "Small caliber handgun."

"And a shotgun?" Eric raised an eyebrow. "Why not just one or the other?"

Speed, jolted out of sarcasm, said, "There are casings at the end of the bed. Can you tell range on the shotgun, Calleigh?"

"Close, but not point blank. Figure 3 feet average length for a shotgun." She retreated to the end of the bed and lined up the shot with her arm. "I'll have to run tests, but probably not far off. If it was a pump action, there should be ejected shotgun shells, too." She bent and explored under the edge of the bed with her fingers. "There you are." One, two, and finally three shells emerged. "But why under the bed. They would have been ejected to the side of the killer. Why leave the casings from the handgun in plain sight and kick the shotgun shells out of the way? It's not like he needed to conceal the murder. This is a strange one."

"Wish we had H." Eric echoed her earlier thought.

Calleigh straightened up, looking at that faceless body again. Other than the bed, it could have been straight from Horatio's nightmares. "I'm glad he's not on this one," she said softly.

"What?" Speed, thoughts firmly on the present crime, glanced at Eric, unsure that he had heard right.

Calleigh instantly snapped back to professionalism. "Okay, Speed, you start processing in here. Alexx should be here soon. Eric, run the rest of the house thoroughly and see what you can find. Be sure to look at the answering machine. I'm going to go find the husband and get more details from him." She whirled around so quickly that her hair fanned out like a curtain as she left the room.

Speed stared at the bed and looked away. "Trade you," he said to Eric with only the ghost of his usual sarcasm.

"No way." Eric turned away in relief and went back into the rest of the house. In spite of Calleigh's opinion, he still wished that H were here. He had a bad feeling about this case.

(H/C)

Calleigh knocked on the door of the house three doors up the street, and a police officer opened. She flashed her badge. "I need to speak to Mr. Mitchell for a minute." He had been temporarily put here, in the house of his best friend.

The cop nodded and stepped back, letting her in. As she passed him, he spoke soto voce. "I've been listening. No weird conversations." Calleigh nodded almost imperceptibly. While the police tried to be as compassionate as possible, they also tried to avoid giving a witness a chance to create, change, or alibi a story until he could be thoroughly interviewed. The guard was also required to be an eavesdropper.

The front door opened directly into the living room, just like the Mitchell's house and probably like every other house in this subdivision. Only the furniture was different. At one end of the room was a couch, and on the couch sat a black man, head buried in his hands, flanked protectively by an older man and a woman. "Mr. Mitchell? I'm so sorry for your loss. Could you answer a few more questions, please? It might help us find her killer."

He raised his head and stared at her through red-rimmed eyes. They took her in and widened slightly. "Calleigh? Calleigh Duquesne?"

Calleigh's knees abruptly went weak, and she dropped into a recliner. "Winslow Mitchell. I thought you were dead."

He nodded. "I was . . . detained for a month while I was on a mission. I can't tell you where, though."

She knew he had been in the military, with many details classified. She closed her eyes, still remembering the letter that had come from his mother in reply to one of Calleigh's increasingly infrequent letters from college. "Winslow is dead," it said simply, three words that echoed around the gaping chasm of parental grief. His mother hadn't been able to write more, probably had taken days to write that much. Calleigh had never written again, never asked for details, and shortly after, she had moved on to join the PD. She opened her eyes again and noticed that the police officer on guard had moved closer, obviously eavesdropping now. She glared him back into his corner. "So, how are you doing? Wait, I'm sorry, stupid question." She glanced down at her badge. "What a way to meet you again. I am sorry, Winslow."

The woman cleared her throat, curious but respectful, and Winslow jumped. "I'm sorry, Mattie. This is Calleigh Duquesne. I knew her back in Louisiana, and she was my prom date. Calleigh, this is Mattie and Bob Stewart, my best friends." Manners and habits supersede tragedy, and the introductions might have been from any social gathering.

Calleigh managed to catch herself before saying she was glad to meet them. "Thank you for helping Winslow out here. I'm glad he has friends who care. Actually, Winslow, it isn't Calleigh Duquesne anymore. I'm married, and I have a daughter."

He half-smiled, remembering the thought from long ago that a daughter of Calleigh's, the beauty and charm without the hurt, would be almost magical. "What's her name?"

"Rosalind."

"Is he good to you?"

It took her a minute to realize what he was asking, and then she followed his eyes to her wedding ring. "He's wonderful."

"I'm glad. You deserve it." He looked down at his own wedding ring and twisted it on his hand, drawing Calleigh back to the purpose of this interview.

"Winslow, I'm really sorry we had to meet like this, but I do need to ask you some questions." He nodded without meeting her eyes. He couldn't use social chitchat any longer to avoid the mental image, as much as he would like to. "Tell me about this morning, please."

"I'd been gone on a long weekend, and I came home about 10:00. I went inside, and when she didn't answer me right away, I went into the bedroom." He flinched and shut his eyes again.

"How far did you enter the bedroom?"

"I went up to the bed to check for a pulse. I know it sounds crazy, but I was still hoping. I bent over and called her. She didn't answer." He choked back a sob, and Mattie tightened her arm around him. Calleigh changed the subject to give him a minute.

"Winslow, did she do housework on any specific day? Dusting and vacuuming?"

He raised his head then. "Yes, she did. Sunday afternoons, always. Why?"

"The furniture wasn't dusted."

"So that's probably when she died?"

"Or before then." Calleigh widened the questions to include the Stewarts. "When did you last see her?"

"Saturday morning," Bob replied. "She was out in the yard, mulching bushes. We were taking a walk, and we stopped to chat for a minute."

"She was the landscaper, then?" All three nodded. "She was good. Between Saturday morning and this morning, especially Sunday, did you see anybody over there? Any strange cars in the neighborhood? Hear anything?" They shook their heads in disjointed unison. "Did anything seem to be bothering her Saturday morning?" Another head shake. "Winslow, did you call her this weekend while you were gone?"

He shook his head. "I was sailing. I like to just get alone with the ocean sometimes."

"Never with her?"

"She didn't like the water. Wanted firm ground under her feet." He realized suddenly that if she had been with him, she wouldn't have died, and the thought crumpled him.

Calleigh stood up. "Okay, Winslow, that's all for right now." She hesitated, then went over to him and opened her arms, and he stood up to hug her, clinging to her for support even though he was much larger. They stood that way for several minutes. His shoulders were shaking.

"You find the bastard that did this," he whispered finally into her hair. "You find him."

Calleigh straightened up, and her voice was fierce with mission. "I will, Winslow. I'll track him down myself. I promise."


	3. Chapter 3

Here's the next chapter in honor of Valentine's Day. Really. Because this Tuesday happens to be Valentine's Day, the choir I'm in voted to cancel rehearsal. We are doing well for the next concert, so we could afford to miss one, and many of the group wished to be elsewhere tonight. So I'm writing instead of singing. Tuesday rehearsal is usually the highlight of my week; give me some feedback to make up for missing it. Thanks to all who have reviewed already, and about the title, I doubt anybody quite has it yet, but the plot will thicken imminently.

(H/C)

"For there is nothing greater and better than this – when a husband and wife keep a household in oneness of mind."

Homer, The Iliad

(H/C)

The remainder of the day was spent untangling evidence, or at least attempting to. Staring at an uncooperative bullet that evening, Calleigh wasn't sure how much untangling she had achieved. Speed and Eric had spent the day painstakingly processing the very-complicated crime scene, and Calleigh had gone with Tripp to interview the other residents of the street, as well as the street behind the house. Nothing. No one had seen anything or heard anything from the house (with a shotgun and a handgun used?). No one noticed anything unusual about this weekend. Speed and Eric had turned up a mountain of evidence, but nothing was conclusive, so far. The perp or perps had been quite careful. Only Winslow's fingerprints and the victim's had been found on the doorknob. A hair had been found in the blood spatter on the pillow, but it matched Winslow's, and he admitted going up to the body. The killer probably had not gone beyond the foot of the bed. Alexx would do the official autopsy tomorrow, but it was pretty well established that the victim had died in her sleep. At least she had been spared the horror, Calleigh thought. Too bad that Winslow hadn't.

Calleigh was now working on the bullets, trying to extract fingerprints from the shotgun shells and the handgun casings, which were 9 mm. It was very hard to insert bullets into a gun wearing gloves. The perp, though, had been careful to grip them only by the very edges. Calleigh had retrieved only partials – very poor-quality partials. They might have matched hundreds of criminals in Miami. She literally growled at the latest bullet. Nothing.

Her cell phone rang, sounding obscenely cheerful, and she flipped it open without looking, resisting the urge to throw it. "Calleigh Caine."

"It's me."

Horatio. He must have realized by her tone that she hadn't checked caller ID. His own tone didn't sound quite right, though. "What's wrong, Horatio?" The concern from that morning abruptly flooded back over her.

"Dana from day care just called me. She wanted to know if we forgot to pick up Rosalind tonight."

Calleigh stared blankly at her watch. 6:45. How had it gotten to be 6:45? Her mind and her voice went into overdrive. "I'm sorry, Horatio, I was just working on this new case, and I lost track of time, and I'm leaving right now, okay?"

"I can take a taxi over to get her if you need to work late."

"No! You stay put. Call Dana and tell her I'm on my way. Bye." She was already flipping the phone shut as she said the last word. After quickly packaging the bullets and filing them, she bolted for the elevator, chewing herself out mentally. The few workers from second shift who were already around parted like the Red Sea, staying out of her way. She didn't notice. Her shoes beat a quick, annoyed staccato to her Jeep. No Mother of the Year award this year, Calleigh. You don't have the luxury of forgetting everything else while you're working anymore.

Dana was the one worker remaining at day care, staying with the one remaining child. Calleigh was already apologizing as she entered the building. "I am so sorry, Dana. We had a complicated new case come in today, and I just lost track of things."

"It's okay. She's never a problem." Dana hesitated. "We will have to bill you for the extra time, though."

"Of course. Sorry again. It's just been one of those days."

Dana smiled at her. "Don't worry about it. See you tomorrow, Rosalind."

"Bye," Rosalind replied. She was silent then until Calleigh was buckling her into the car seat, but her eyes had been tracking her mother ever since Calleigh arrived. She reached out a hand and put it over Calleigh's as the belt was about to be fastened. "Mama okay?" she asked.

Calleigh smiled at her reassuringly. Rosalind was so much like Horatio at times. "I'm fine, Angel. I forgot what time it was, that's all, but I didn't forget you."

Rosalind considered, then accepted it. "Okay. Home now?"

"Right. We're going home now."

"Let's eat."

"I know you're hungry, Angel. We'll eat soon. I'm sorry." Calleigh kissed her daughter, then closed the door and went around to the driver's seat. She realized for the first time that she had forgotten her jacket at CSI. It wasn't often needed in Miami, but the January night had turned chilly. She turned the heater on after starting the Jeep. "Are you cold, Rosalind?"

"No." At least Calleigh hadn't forgotten Rosalind's jacket in day care. She'd only forgotten the girl herself. Still annoyed, she pulled out into the road, heading for home.

"Dada okay?"

"I haven't really talked to him today, Angel, just once. He's probably feeling better now, but he won't be well yet."

Rosalind stared out the window at the passing cars. "Still stay down?"

Calleigh laughed. "We'll see. I hope he was good today."

"Horse!" Rosalind perked up instantly, spying a horse trailer in front of them. Calleigh felt some of the stress of the day slowly seeping out of her as Rosalind engaged in lengthy guesses as to what color of horse occupied the trailer and then, after they had turned different directions, kept her eyes peeled for another one.

Rosalind trotted up the sidewalk ahead of Calleigh when they got home, but she abruptly came to a halt at the door, obviously realizing that if she knocked, Horatio would have to get up to let her in. Grinning to herself, Calleigh hurried the last few feet up the sidewalk and opened the door.

Horatio was stretched out on the couch, but a savory smell filled the entire house. "It'll be ready in five minutes," he said, answering her raised eyebrow. Rosalind scrambled onto his lap, and he hugged her. "Hi, Angel. Hi, Cal."

"Horatio, you're supposed to be resting."

"And I have been. Honest. I was asleep when Dana called. Since you were running late, though, I thought I'd go ahead and cook. One less thing for you to do."

Calleigh bent over to kiss him on the forehead. He still felt a bit warm, but the improvement from that morning was significant. She marched back to the bathroom, took the thermometer out of the medicine cabinet, and inserted it into his mouth on her way back through to the kitchen. She inspected the oven, finding fish sticks, one of Rosalind's favorites. She got out three plates, poured drinks for all of them, and then split most of the fish sticks between herself and Rosalind, giving Horatio a few. She could tell from the number he'd cooked that he wasn't really hungry yet.

Leaving two plates on the table, she picked up one and a glass and came back into the living room. "Go and eat, Rosalind." Rosalind hesitated, looking back at her father. "I'm right here. Go ahead." Satisfied, her daughter trotted off to the kitchen, and Calleigh set down the plate and glass on the coffee table and extracted the thermometer. 99.5.

"Convinced that I'm better yet?" Horatio asked.

"Better, yes. Well, no." She handed him his plate. "How are you feeling?"

"A lot better than this morning. I really did just lie around all day." He took a bite. "Yours is getting cold in there, Cal. Go get it and tell me about this new case."

She retrieved her plate, checked on Rosalind, who was happily eating fish sticks herself, although she was ignoring the silverware, and returned to drop into the recliner. Like Horatio the night before, she kicked off her shoes, and like herself the night before, he noticed.

"You remember Winslow Mitchell?"

He cocked his head slightly, accessing the mental files. The answer popped up amazingly quickly. "Your prom date."

"Right. Well, his wife was murdered today. Actually, not today, but he found her today."

Horatio sat up a little straighter. "I thought he was dead."

"So did I. I nearly fell over when I walked into that room."

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "Poor Cal. I'm glad someone he knew was there for him, though."

"So am I. He was in shock, of course."

"Of course. Why didn't he find her before today?"

"He's been on a long weekend sailing. Just got back this morning. Don't let your fish sticks get cold."

"Or yours." They ate in a companionable silence for a few minutes. Horatio finished the few she had given him, but he didn't ask for more. Calleigh smiled at him while she finished eating. What a guy. He had immediately been concerned for Winslow, even before wondering how it was he was still alive. Such compassion he had for victims' families. She set her empty plate on the coffee table to join his and settled back into the chair. Horatio was silent, giving her time to organize her thoughts.

"Turns out, Winslow was just captured for a while on a special assignment in the military. He wasn't killed after all, and I never actually followed up on it after being told by his mother he was dead."

He nodded. "You didn't want to push her. You probably didn't want details yourself."

"It wouldn't have made any difference. Well, if he had really been dead, knowing how wouldn't have mattered."

He understood, of course. "Details would be looking backwards, too. He was the last thing from your childhood you had to let go of in starting your new life."

"Exactly. In fact, he was the one good thing from Darnell."

He flinched. "I'm sorry, Cal."

"It's okay. Nobody picks their parents. I'm glad he was in Darnell, though. If I hadn't had one person I knew who was trustworthy, I would have arrived in college with a shell even thicker than it was."

"Did he blame himself for what your father did?"

"No, he blamed my father. He would have gone over to 'discuss it,' as he put it, but I begged him not too. I had already left home and moved in with a friend. What was the point? Nothing would have changed Daddy. Winslow and I never quite felt comfortable after that, though. Daddy changed our friendship, even when I tried not to let him. We wrote for a while after I left Darnell, but it got less and less often."

He nodded. "You still blame yourself for that, don't you?"

She sighed. "You're good, you know it? Yes, I blamed myself. Especially after I thought he was dead. I couldn't even remember what my last words to him were. He deserved better friends than that. How did you know I blamed myself, Horatio?"

"You've never wanted to talk about him all these years. There had to be a reason why." He smiled at her. "But I'm sure he doesn't remember you as a poor friend. And I'm sure you weren't one to him today."

She closed her eyes, replaying the words in his velvet voice. "Thank you, Horatio."

His eyes warmed her as she looked at him again. "Anytime. So, how did he wind up in Miami?"

"We weren't exactly catching up socially." He flinched, nodding. "I'm not sure what all he's done in the meantime. He did say he loves sailing, and that's probably one reason he picked this city."

"Tell me about the case."

"She was shot with a 12-gauge shotgun and a 9-mm handgun."

He raised an eyebrow. "That's called overkill."

"Believe me, it was. She was apparently asleep, at least. Perp stood at the end of the bed and fired. One strange thing; the shotgun shells were under the edge of the bed, but the 9-mm casings were out in the open." She could hear the gears in his mind turn, processing this. "Alexx hasn't done post yet, but rigor had fully worn off. Speed and Eric are processing the house – nothing conclusive so far. Tripp and I didn't get anything from the neighbors."

"Prints on the casings?"

"Only partials. He held them by the very edge. It's not enough for identity." She sighed. "That's what I was working on when you called. I just lost track of time."

"Understandable." He leaned back into the cushions a little, and she suddenly realized how tired he looked, much tireder than when she had gotten home.

"I'm sorry, Horatio. I'm talking away here, and you ought to be in bed."

"No, I ought to be listening to you. You needed to talk about it."

"All the same, you're going to bed early tonight. And by going to bed, I mean in the bedroom, not on the couch trying to turn a simple bug into pneumonia."

He gave in. "Okay. I'll admit, I'm still kind of weak. I'm sure I'll be well in the morning, though."

"It took both of us a full day and a half to get over it."

"Ah, but you got sick on the weekend. That's different."

"How?"

"Weekday bugs wear off faster than weekend bugs. Everybody knows that." His eyes twinkled at her.

She forced herself to keep a stubborn expression, although her lips were quivering a bit. "We'll see." The silence from the next room struck both of them in the same moment. Horatio raised an eyebrow and tilted his head that way, and Calleigh got up and quietly walked to the kitchen door in her bare feet.

"Hope! Get down from there." Hope, on the kitchen table being fed fish stick bites by Rosalind, looked up guiltily. Rosalind smiled at her mother, breaking off another small piece from the end of her last fish stick. Hope snatched it as Rosalind poked the rest of the stick into her own mouth.

"Hope hungry, too."

"Down!" Calleigh insisted, stalking to the table. Hope was a calico blur as she leaped. "Rosalind, you do not feed the cat on the table." Horatio was laughing in the next room. "Now then, let's get you to bed."

"Not yet," Rosalind said. She usually played for a while between eating and bedtime, but the whole schedule tonight was late.

"I know you just ate, but it's already bedtime tonight, because I was late picking you up. Now let's go to bed." Reluctantly, Rosalind hopped out of the chair.

Horatio spoke up from the couch. "I have to go to bed early, too, Rosalind. Why don't you come with me to make sure I behave?"

Rosalind perked up instantly. "Okay." She trotted into the living room, stopping in front of her father. "Bed, Dada!"

Smiling, Calleigh watched them head down the hall together. "I'll come tuck you in shortly," she called.

"Both of us?" Horatio asked as he turned into the bedroom.

"You'd better believe it. I just need to straighten things up a bit." She removed her gun and badge, which she hadn't taken time to do yet, and locked them into the desk drawer. Her shoes were retrieved from the middle of the floor – not that she really minded them there, but she knew Horatio did, although he wouldn't have mentioned it. She straightened up the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, and lectured a purring Hope, who appeared looking innocent for her nighttime splash of milk. "You've already had your treat tonight. You know better, Hope. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." Hope purred and rubbed through Calleigh's ankles, unrepentant.

Suddenly realizing how tired she was herself, Calleigh headed back for the bedroom and then stopped in the doorway, just enjoying the scene for a minute. Both of them were asleep already. Rosalind was tucked into Horatio's side, and he had one arm wrapped protectively around her. Golden hair and red lay side by side on the pillow, and in sleep, the lines faded somewhat from Horatio's face, making him for the moment look as peaceful as his daughter. She could have watched them forever. Finally, Calleigh tiptoed into the room, turning the covers back gently and moving Horatio's arm to extract their daughter. Horatio tightened his grip, then half-opened his eyes. "It's just me," she whispered. "Go back to sleep." She carried Rosalind across to the nursery, put her in her pajamas, and tucked her in, and her daughter never stirred. Calleigh undressed and slipped soundlessly into bed, and Horatio stirred in his sleep, his arm coming to rest around her, just like Rosalind. Calleigh snuggled against him and kissed him, checking his fever again. "Sleep well, love," she whispered. She closed her eyes and rested against him, feeling exhaustion overwhelm her. What a day, she thought. Poor Winslow. Wonder what will happen tomorrow. With that, she fell into the canyon of dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Somebody requested a timetable, particularly with Rosalind. Betrayal takes place in mid January. Rosalind is one and a half months shy of being two years old. I realize she's not the typical almost 2-year-old. I've never had kids myself and never will, but I do have an "expert witness" who has dealt with many kids, both typical and not, and everything about Rosalind, from personality to activities, is based on actual experience in reality, and at that age or earlier. Horatio and Calleigh have been married for three years and four months. I'm not obsessed to the point of working out what year it is, though. :)

Betrayal is going on vacation for the next week while I deal with pre concert week and extra rehearsals leading to a concert next weekend.

Thanks for the feedback.

(H/C)

"Truth exists, only falsehood has to be invented."

Georges Braque

(H/C)

Calleigh slowly, one by one, put her books in her locker as if the precise arrangement of them were critically important. While all other students bustled around her, hurrying for the doors, newly released from the school cage into the weekend, her actions slowed down more the closer she got to leaving. Finally, she was left standing in front of the organized locker, looking for anything else to keep her there. School was an escape for her. It was home that was the cage.

"Calleigh!" She turned gladly to face the interruption. Another delay, one she didn't even have to manufacture.

"Hey, Winslow."

The handsome black teen walked up to her, stopping a few feet away. One of the things that had struck her from the beginning was how much he was aware of and respected personal space, quite rare among the often-oblivious students. He never forced his presence on anyone uninvited. She smiled at him, leaning against the locker, and he advanced another half step. "I wanted to ask you something."

He hesitated so long there that Calleigh's interest was caught. "Better ask it, then, before we both get old standing here."

He shifted his weight slightly. Winslow never seemed uncomfortable or ungraceful, but he was both now. He gulped, eying the beautiful blonde spitfire in front of him, and she raised an eyebrow. "Wouldyougotopromwithme?" he blurted out.

Her mouth literally fell open. Why would anybody want to take her to prom, especially with the other dates available? Immediately on the heels of that thought came another. It was a terrific excuse to escape home for a night. "Sure," she said quickly. "I'd love to, Winslow. Thank you for asking." Her first thought caught up again with her second, and she added, "But if you find someone else you'd rather go with, or if something comes up, I'll understand. You don't have to feel obligated."

He studied her with those warm brown eyes that she had loved from the beginning. So much kindness there. So gentle. He was the first person she had ever met who combined gentleness with strength. "I'm asking you," he insisted.

"And I've accepted." Today, you're asking me. She knew him by now, but she still had trouble believing. Everyone else in her life lied. Sooner or later, he would.

"Not everybody in the world is going to betray your trust. You can believe in some of us." He reached out to squeeze her arm lightly, making the movement slow enough that she saw it coming and could have avoided it if she had wanted. "I'll pick you up at 7:00. I promise." He turned and walked down the hall, and a sadness walked with him, the sadness of one who wishes he could change things and knows that he cannot.

Calleigh stood by the locker without even looking for an excuse to just stand there. Of course everybody was going to betray her trust. Even Winslow would eventually, and she wouldn't hold it against him. The amazing thing was how long it seemed to be taking him to lie to her. Still, her heart was beating a little more quickly and not just in anticipation of going home. He had asked her to the prom. Even if just as a substitute, he had thought of her. Someone wanted to be with her. "Thank you, Winslow," she repeated to the empty, echoing halls.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!

Calleigh opened her eyes, disoriented for a minute. Her house. Her bedroom. The alarm clock. She smacked it into submission and lay back for a minute, remembering the dream. It had been years since she'd thought of that conversation. At least she knew now that he had been right, that not everybody in the world would betray her trust.

At that thought, she realized that for the second morning in a row, she had woken up alone. She'd checked on Horatio several times through the night, and he had been sleeping soundly, but he was gone now. She sat up quickly, reaching over to touch the pillow beside her. It was still vaguely warm, and she spread her hand out to capture the heat, his heat, feeling it soak into her fingers. Calleigh, she told herself, you're pathetic, and she didn't care. She could hear the shower running now. Horatio was already up and had slipped out of bed soundlessly, not wanting to deny her the last few delicious minutes of sleep. How thoughtful of him. As always.

The shower shut off, and Calleigh got up and slipped on her robe. She looked in on Rosalind, still sleeping soundly, and then opened the bathroom door, entering with a firm tread just as he was combing his hair in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around his waist. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

Horatio grinned at her reflection, which had joined his in the mirror. "Good morning."

"Good morning. I asked you a question."

"Taking a shower."

She grasped him around the waist and spun him to face her, putting her hand against his forehead. Nearly impossible to tell, of course, as he had just taken a hot shower, and the room was still warm. She pulled out the thermometer from the medicine cabinet and inserted it.

"I'm fine. All better now," he mumbled around the glass.

She studied him, trying not to get sidetracked. He looked his usual handsome self, but his eyes had the look she knew by now meant he was keeping up a front for the world. The question was, how much of a front? She handed him his robe. "Put this on and stop distracting me. How are you feeling? Honestly, Horatio."

"Have I ever lied to you?" he asked around the mouthful of thermometer.

She smiled at the echo of Winslow's thought. The prophecy and, years later, the fulfillment. "Not on anything that really mattered. But physically and about yourself, sometimes, yes." She pulled the thermometer out and checked it. Normal.

"I'm feeling a lot better," he insisted. "Fever's gone, cough is gone, and the work isn't gone."

"But is better well? I've had it myself, Horatio. I was still pretty wiped out at this stage."

"I'm fine," he insisted, and she knew she wouldn't breach the wall. Besides, although he might not have his usual energy and endurance today, he probably wouldn't do any harm beyond wearing himself out by going in and catching up on paperwork. He was obviously on the mend, and if left at home, he would spend the day housecleaning or something, just to prove he was well. Paperwork would be less strenuous. They only had one big case going at the moment, and that one was hers. She had promised Winslow.

"Okay, Horatio, but I have a favor to ask." His eyes invited her to continue. "Let me keep the lead on Winslow's wife's murder. I want this investigation myself."

He nodded. "Of course. It will probably help him for you to be working it."

She embraced him, overwhelmed with gratitude again at what she had. "Thank you, Horatio." They were standing there wrapped in each other's arms when Rosalind was heard from the next room.

"Mama?"

"Just a minute, Rosalind," Calleigh answered.

Horatio raised an eyebrow. "Not calling for me too this morning? That's odd. What did I do?"

"She probably thinks you're supposed to still be in bed. She's probably right."

He changed the subject neatly. "I'll get her up while you shower."

After he left and closed the door again, Calleigh waited to turn on the water, ears alert to catch the conversation from the next room. The words were a bit muffled but perfectly understandable.

"Good morning, Angel."

"Morning. Back to bed, Dada!"

"No, I'm all better now. People don't stay sick forever, just like you didn't."

Rosalind was silent for a few seconds, and Calleigh smiled, picturing her daughter's slightly tilted head and analytical gaze. She was observant, their daughter. She didn't totally believe Horatio, either.

"Not sick?"

"No, I'm fine. You and your mother are teaming up on me. Everything's okay, Rosalind. Now, let's get you up and see about breakfast. We ought to have it done by the time Mama gets out of the shower – if she ever gets into it, that is." Calleigh turned on the water quickly, smiling to herself, enjoying her family. Winslow, she thought, you were right.

(H/C)

Alexx carefully probed for the bullets, crooning reassuringly to the body as she did so. "Poor baby. At least you never saw it coming. Hope you were having a nice dream."

Calleigh smiled slightly to herself, and Alexx arched an eyebrow. "Nice dreams. I had a good one last night."

"About Horatio?"

"In a way," Calleigh evaded. True enough. Winslow had been talking about Horatio; he just didn't know it. "So which came first, Alexx? Shotgun or 9 mil?"

"Shotgun." Alexx held up a 9-mm bullet trapped in her forceps. "This bullet was sitting almost on top of a pellet. Did you get anything yesterday from the casings?"

"No. Nothing useful. I'll keep working on it, though."

"I'm sure," Alexx replied. Calleigh with ballistics evidence was like a bulldog. "Ah, here's another one." Another bullet was extracted. "I think that's it on the bullets. Shotgun pellets all over, of course. The shotgun blew her face off and killed her instantly, and then she was shot twice with the handgun."

"Any way of telling how long between?"

Alexx frowned, eyeing the body. "Very difficult. The shotgun did so much damage at that close range, we don't really have defined entry wounds for the bullets. Even if we did, lack of bleeding wouldn't necessarily mean she was dead already. Bullets are quite hot when they've just been fired. It could easily have seared vessels on the way in. Are you thinking two separate perps?"

Calleigh nodded. "It's the best theory right now, anyway. That would explain the shotgun shells kicked under the bed. Perp A killed her with a shotgun, and Perp B came along a bit later and wanted to make it look like a handgun instead."

"Sounds like a lot of enemies. Why a handgun? And why not take the shells with him, instead of kicking them under the bed?" Alexx continued to extract pellets as they talked.

"I don't know yet. Maybe he kicked the shells accidentally. The handgun had to be intentional, though. Somebody who doesn't know how much we can do with a crime scene. He needed the handgun to be the murder weapon." She shook her head, objecting even as she spoke. "But it seems like any idiot would realize we'd notice about the shotgun. It tore her whole face off." Her previous day's thought came back to her. Even though she hadn't been thinking of it at the time of her request this morning, she was glad Horatio would stay off this case. She was silent long enough that Alexx looked up at her, noting the distant eyes.

"You okay, honey?"

Calleigh shook herself back to the case. "Fine." She caught the echo of Horatio and smiled. "I sound like Horatio, don't I?" Alexx nodded. "Really, I'm okay. I was just thinking, I'm glad he's not on this one." Alexx was the only other person besides Calleigh who knew everything Horatio had hidden for so long about his mother's death.

Alexx nodded. "Good thinking on your part asking him to let you keep the case." Calleigh didn't correct her on motives, although she felt a bit guilty. It should have been a motive this morning. "How's Horatio doing?" Alexx asked.

"Getting better all the time. He hardly ever dreams about it anymore, and last April was a lot better. He'll never forget, but we're winning."

"There's a difference between remembering and being haunted by something," Alexx agreed. "There we are. That's the last pellet, I think." She dropped it into the dish Calleigh was holding.

"Alexx, be sure to run tox tests, okay? Although if anybody was drugged, it must have included the whole neighborhood. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything."

"You got it, sweetie. I won't cut corners just because we know she was shot." She resumed her low murmur to the body as Calleigh whisked out of the room, heading for Ballistics, the bullets burning a hole in her lab coat pocket.

(H/C)

Speed slouched into Ballistics early that afternoon, not bothering to knock, and Calleigh jumped as he spoke to her. "Calleigh, I . . . hey, sorry. I thought you heard me."

"I was just concentrating. What have you got?"

"I've been over that house as well as I can. Still working on trace. I haven't found any indications yet that anybody was there other than Mitchell and his wife."

"Well, the murderer was there, too," Calleigh pointed out. "Go back and look harder. What about Eric?"

"He got called just after lunch. H pulled him for another case that came in."

"Murder?" Horatio hadn't mentioned anything to her at lunch. He must not have heard about it yet.

"Yes. Big prestige case, apparently. It was the captain who called him, and he had to get there quick. He did ask which one of us was more involved with this evidence already, and since I had the bedroom, he left me on this one." She nodded. That made sense. She turned back to her bullets, then turned around when she realized Speed was still leaning against the door frame.

"Did you have anything else to report?"

"Not exactly, just a suggestion."

"Sure. Everybody on the team has a valuable different perspective," she replied, quoting Horatio.

"Has anybody checked out Mitchell's alibi?"

Calleigh's eyes took aim and fired. "He was out sailing all weekend, Speedle."

He flinched at the use of his complete name but pushed on. "That's what he says. Alone. I just don't think we should totally ignore looking into his story."

She took a step forward, and he backed up through the door. "He had nothing to do with this, and the evidence is going to prove it. At least, as soon as you stop chasing dead ends and get back to work so we can finish processing."

He spread his hands. "Sorry. Just a thought." He turned around and headed back for Trace, but he could feel her eyes boring into his back every step down the hall, and he sighed with relief when he turned the corner and escaped.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'm not an expert on shotguns, merely knowing how to fire them, but my grandpa did make his own shells. I watched him at it many times as a kid. Amazing what comes back to you as fic research, even from across many, many years. Sorry for any errors due to grandpa's and my lack of technical expertise. Nor am I an expert on sailing, having simply read a few books.

(H/C)

"I can discover facts, Watson, but I cannot change them."

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

(H/C)

Calleigh lined up her shots carefully, refusing to admit that she was annoyed. She was simply investigating, and Speed's suggestion had nothing to do with why she chose to investigate this next. Holding a shotgun of the appropriate gauge, she aimed carefully at the first target, which had a pillow propped behind it. Six feet. She moved down a target and blasted the next pillow into pillow heaven. Five feet. Four feet. Three feet. She stopped with that one; wishing for a few more pillows to blast, but if the perp had fired from the foot of the bed, it couldn't be closer than three feet, and if he had fired from closer than the foot of the bed, the damage would have been even more severe to Angelina's face. Calleigh would have already guessed at three feet even without test firings. She was simply verifying her suspicions, being a thorough investigator. Besides, courts liked evidence.

Evidence. She felt a quick stab of annoyance at Speed again. How could he state, without anything behind it, that Winslow might be involved? The idea was ridiculous. She would almost as soon suspect Horatio. She inspected the targets and target pillows, comparing their damage to the crime scene photos and the actual pillow. Three feet, as she'd suspected. Now, if they could just find the weapon. Either one. .

She inspected the shells again. Maybe there was something else here. Shells could contain trace of where they had been, giving clues to the killer's base of operations. She picked up the shells and started for Trace with a business-like stride. Speed apparently had too much time on his hands. She'd give him another avenue to investigate.

Horatio entered the hall just ahead of her from the opposite side. He checked stride and waited, and she fell into step with him. "Hey. Speed said you had a case."

"Big one. Some judge's wife was murdered this morning while he was out with his mistress. Or so he says."

"You think he bought her story?"

"I don't think anything yet, Cal. I didn't like him, but that doesn't make him a criminal. We'll have to check his story out, though, as well as any other leads. The husband always gets checked out when the wife is killed."

"Of course," she replied automatically. "Just don't wear yourself out today. I really meant for you to stick to paperwork." He was looking a bit pale and more than a bit tired.

"I'm fine, Calleigh. I had to take this one. The captain called."

"The judge pulled strings?"

"Don't they all? He wants special treatment. I told him I'd give a thorough investigation to his wife's murder."

"But not special treatment for him?"

He grinned at her. "I didn't actually say it, but the transmission was received. He seemed most concerned with what the bad publicity would do to his upcoming campaign for the state senate."

"Politics," she commiserated. "Poor Horatio. Well, I promise to come spring you from this investigation promptly at 5:00, regardless of what the captain, the judge, or the campaign chairman have to say about it." Both of them glanced at their watches at the same instant, then looked harder. "How did it get to be 4:30?"

"Beats me. Didn't we just get here? By the way, how's Winslow's case coming?"

"Slowly. There's so much ballistics evidence on this one. I've worked out that the distance was three feet on the shotgun. Awfully hard to tell on the handgun, since it came later, and there wasn't a regular target surface left." She flinched, hearing her own words. "I'm not forgetting she was a person, Horatio."

"I know. There are plenty of things I say on this job that I wouldn't want Rosalind to hear me talking about. It's not dehumanizing them, but we have to get a bit of distance to investigate thoroughly."

They had stopped walking long since and were simply standing in the hallway. "Well, you'd better get to your office and put the judge's case to bed for the night, and I'd better talk to Speed, not that he'll want to see me."

Horatio arched an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Oh, I snapped at him earlier this afternoon. He was asking if anyone had checked out Winslow's alibi yet."

"Has anyone?"

She stared at him. "Not you, too. Horatio, Winslow had nothing to do with this."

"I'm not saying he did; I'm just saying it's procedure. It might lead you to important data you'd miss otherwise. You just agreed that it's standard to look at the husband's story."

"I was talking about judges who are running for office, not about Winslow. I know him, Horatio. He's innocent."

He studied her for a minute. "Don't let your feelings for a friend get in the way of investigating the case, Calleigh."

"I'm not," she insisted a bit too loudly. A passer-by looked at her strangely, and Horatio hurried him on with one sharp glance. "I'm just saying it would be a waste of time."

"We waste a lot of time on this job tracking dead ends, Cal. Sometimes it helps us find the right ones."

She sighed. Why did he have to sound so reasonable? "Okay, you probably have a point. But nothing will come of it. I'll meet you at the elevator in 30 minutes." She turned toward Trace.

"Calleigh." His voice stopped her, and she looked back. "I think you should check his story out, but I agree with you. He's innocent."

"Why? You don't know him like I do."

"But I know you. Anyone you trusted that much wouldn't be a murderer, at least not in cold blood. Your judgment is better than that."

She relaxed slightly. "Thank you, Horatio. See you in a little bit." She marched into Trace, feeling a little less defensive. He was right. She couldn't totally ignore Winslow as a possible suspect. Better rule him out as quickly as possible, so they could get after the real murderer.

Speed looked up uneasily as she entered his domain. She put the shotgun shells on the table. "I want you to run trace on these, any clue as to where the killer had been before he handled them. Also, we are going to check out Winslow's alibi. Tomorrow. We aren't working late tonight, and that goes for you, too."

He relaxed. "I had to mention it."

"I know. No problem. Just be forewarned that it's a waste of time." She turned and marched back to Ballistics, and Speed looked after her. He still had the feeling that Calleigh wasn't being totally objective with this case.

(H/C)

At 5:00 promptly, Calleigh entered the lobby and approached the elevator. The door opened, and Winslow exited, nearly running into her. "Were you looking for me?"

"Yeah." He looked awful, like he hadn't slept all night. "Do you know anything yet?"

"Not yet. It takes time, Winslow. I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "I keep thinking it's all a nightmare and I'll wake up any minute. Do you know when she died, at least?"

"Sunday night late. You were out sailing, right?" She was ready to apologize and explain if he took the question wrong, but he didn't seem offended. He just looked distracted, which was only to be expected, poor man.

"Um, yeah, I was out sailing. I left Saturday morning and didn't get back into the marina until Tuesday morning."

"What's your boat's name, by the way?"

He smiled fondly, the sadness dissipating for a second. "Belle."

"And is she one?"

He nodded. "Temperamental but a real lady. Don't take her for granted, and you're fine."

"Just like people," she said. She was surprised at his reaction.

"Do you think I don't wonder about that?" he asked almost fiercely.

"What? I'm not following you, Winslow."

He studied her for a minute, then relaxed. "Sorry. I was just thinking, I expected Ang to always be there for me. I never thought it would end like this."

"It's not your fault, Winslow." She hugged him, only breaking away when she heard well-loved footsteps behind her. "Horatio, this is Winslow Mitchell. Horatio Caine, my husband."

Horatio held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, but I wish it could be under better circumstances."

"So do I." Winslow studied Horatio curiously, almost like a detective, the gaze frisking him from head to toe. Not that Horatio wasn't doing the same, Calleigh thought, but he was much more subtle about it. "Well, I'll see you later, Calleigh. Keep me in the loop, okay?"

"I will." Horatio looked at her but said nothing.

The elevator opened, and they all three entered, the men on either side of Calleigh. The trip down was made in silence.

(H/C)

Horatio dropped into the recliner as soon as they got home. Calleigh checked to make sure he wasn't running a fever again, which he wasn't, then left him alone. He looked beyond exhausted. "I'll fix supper, Horatio. It'll be ready soon."

Rosalind climbed into his lap. "Bed, Dada!" she insisted.

"Good idea, just as soon as I have the energy to walk there," he assured her.

"And as soon as you eat," Calleigh added. "I did warn you this morning you couldn't be totally over it. You shouldn't have worked today, especially not going out in the field."

"I'm fine, Cal. Not sick, just tired." He closed his eyes.

"You'll feel much better tomorrow," she promised. "A good night's sleep will do wonders. And it's only two days until the weekend."

He grinned, opening his eyes again. "We'll have to do something as a family this weekend to celebrate all being well. Last weekend didn't deserve the title. What should we do Saturday, Rosalind?"

Rosalind considered. "To the park!" she suggested after a minute.

"The park it is. We'll all go to the park Saturday and spend a real day off. I promise. No work, no germs, nothing but fun together." He looked up at Calleigh, still standing there. "Not to rush you, Cal, but weren't you going to cook?" He would have skipped it and gone on to bed, but he knew she wouldn't let him.

"On my way," she replied. She had just been enjoying watching Horatio and Rosalind interacting, but she had a lifetime to do it in, and he did look beat tonight. She hurried into the kitchen, humming to herself, even temporarily forgetting Winslow's case. She, like Rosalind, couldn't wait until Saturday.

(H/C)

Thursday would turn out to be a day that Calleigh remembered all her life, but it started innocently enough. They enjoyed breakfast together as a family, with Horatio looking much better, Rosalind taking bird inventory through the huge glass doors onto the beach, and Calleigh perfectly content.

Once she arrived at CSI, though, the case was back at the front of her mind. Might as well get the wasted time out of the way as quickly as possible. She started calling marinas, finding gold on only her third call. Yes, Winslow Mitchell berthed his sailboat, Belle, there. He had left Saturday morning and returned Tuesday morning, as he'd said. Calleigh hung up with satisfaction. So much for verifying Winslow's alibi. She hoped her luck was as good throughout the day, although she didn't really expect it. Only three marinas called. Amazing.

She spent the morning going over the ballistics evidence again. The pellets from the shotgun were slightly irregular, indicating to her trained eye that the perp made his own pellets and packed his own shells. There were two reasons for that, usually: Odd gauge ammunition that wasn't readily obtainable, so he had to reuse his shells, which didn't apply here, or a compulsive hobby shooter who simply enjoyed making his own shells. The perp had done them a favor. She was sure she could match the slight ridges on the pellets to the specific mold.

Speed interrupted her musings. "I finished trace on those shells. Slight gunpowder and lead residue on the exterior. I think he packed his own shells."

"I'm ahead of you," she reported. "He even used a mold with an irregular seam in it for the pellets."

"There was one other thing, though. High-octane fuel, usually either from boats or airplanes. Any trace inside the shells, of course, would have burned out, but there's a little bit of trace on the ridges of the plastic on the outside of the shell. I think we need to look at the marinas."

"By the way, I verified Winslow's alibi this morning. Called the place where he keeps his boat, and he left Saturday morning and came back Tuesday morning. So much for him as a suspect. He might have boating friends, though. The murderer is usually acquainted with the victim."

Speed looked uneasy. "Um, is that all you did on the alibi?"

Calleigh instantly went defensive. "I checked it out, and it checks out."

"But he could have come back at some point and simply parked at another marina. In fact, if he'd wanted to manufacture an alibi, he wouldn't take the boat to his home port, and he'd make good and sure they saw him leave Saturday and come back Tuesday. We ought to check with other marinas and also check his credit cards."

Calleigh's eyes flared up, and Speed backed a few steps. "Speedle, why are you trying to pin this on Winslow?"

"I'm not trying to pin it on anybody, just investigating. More thoroughly than you are." He regretted those words as soon as he spoke them. He knew he wouldn't get through to her by criticism, not when she was in this mood.

"When I need advice on how to conduct an investigation, I'll ask for it," she snapped. "Go do something useful – like looking for a marina connection among Winslow's friends. Gun clubs, too."

Speed turned and left, trying not to run but walking quickly. He hesitated as he came to the hallway, then unwillingly and much more slowly turned left, heading not for Trace but for Horatio's office.

(H/C)

Calleigh was making notes on her findings when her cell phone rang. She stared at the page, realizing suddenly that her pen had torn clear through the paper. "Calleigh Caine," she said.

It was Tripp. "Found a possible witness."

"To the murder?"

"No, not directly. Somebody two streets over is sure she saw Mitchell in the neighborhood on Sunday night."

"Well, she's mistaken. Either that or lying."

"Ought to ask him that. You want to come along when I talk to him?"

"No, I want to talk to this witness myself first. What's her name and address?"

Tripp sighed. "She's positive, Calleigh."

"Name and address."

He provided them. "I'll meet you there."

Calleigh stabbed end with her finger and stalked out of Ballistics. She wished everyone would get off of Winslow's tail so that they could solve this case. Well, she, at least, was going to find out the truth here. Shoulders squared, she entered the elevator.


	6. Chapter 6

"We prove what we want to prove, and the real difficulty is to know what we want to prove."

Emile Auguste Chartier

(H/C)

Speed knocked on the open door to Horatio's office, and Horatio looked up and nodded him to a chair. He was on the phone. "I am well aware of when the elections are, and I'm also aware of who is the victim here. And regardless of his prominence, it isn't your client. This investigation will be thorough, and it would proceed faster if I didn't have to waste time on unimportant phone calls." Speed grinned slightly, almost forgetting his mission. This scene would have been complete if only he had been able to hear the other side of the conversation. He amused himself by filling in the blanks.

"I'm sorry," Horatio said silkily, "but someone has just come into my office for a very important conference." He hung up the phone and stared at it as if he wanted to shoot it. Speed applauded, and Horatio smiled. "I wish politics and murder didn't go together so often on this job. What can I do for you, Speed?"

Speed abruptly remembered his mission. "It's Calleigh." He saw the sudden alarm in Horatio's expression and hurried on. "No, I don't mean anything's wrong. She's fine. Only she's not fine."

Horatio sat back in his chair. "Start over, from the beginning," he suggested.

"It's this case with Winslow Mitchell's wife. H, she isn't thinking straight at all on this one. She's missing obvious leads to investigate, and she just gets annoyed at suggestions. I think she's too close to this one."

Horatio tilted his head slightly. "Can't blame her for not being totally objective."

"Of course not, not when he's some old flame of hers."

"He's not an old flame, just a very good friend from her childhood," Horatio corrected.

Speed snorted. "Yeah, right. You don't get this riled up over just a friend you haven't seen in years. Have you seen them together?" Horatio nodded. "But it's blocking a thorough investigation."

"I'm sure you're filling in the gaps," Horatio commented. "I think we've got to trust Calleigh here, at least for the moment. Let me know if things get worse. But anything that you think isn't being done thoroughly, go ahead and check it out yourself. Discretely. You know what that means, don't you?"

Speed grinned. "My specialty," he joked.

"I'll be sure to note that on your next review. Maybe we'll even assign you to all the cases involving politics."

"On the other hand," Speed continued, "Eric would be a lot better on those cases than I would."

Horatio stood up. "Keep me posted, Speed. I'll keep an eye on her, but I do want to let her keep the case if possible. I hope it is possible."

"Thanks, H." They exited the office and parted at the foot of the stairs, Speed to double check Calleigh's work and Horatio to investigate a case with politics. Speed briefly envied his supervisor. Facing campaign managers would probably be easier than facing Calleigh on this one.

(H/C)

Calleigh marched into the witness's living room and started cross examination almost before Tripp had completed introductions. "Now, then, Mrs. Sampson, when did you think you saw Mr. Mitchell?" She put special emphasis on the word think.

"Sunday night, 10:00 p.m. It was about an hour before I called the police."

Calleigh hesitated, distracted briefly. "You called the police?"

"Yes, I did, and it isn't the first time, either. Those boys drive up and down and play their music like they want the people clear over in Cuba to hear it. Boom, boom, boom! It shakes the whole house. It's a rare night on the weekend that somebody around here doesn't call. Why, when I was a child, we had some courtesy. We never would have . . ."

Calleigh cut across the neighborhood noise complaints and returned to the heart of the matter. "So it was after dark when you saw this man who somewhat resembled Winslow."

"It was Winslow, dearie. I've known him for four years." The white-haired grandmother refused to be put on the defensive, and Calleigh's irritation with her grew.

"But it was dark," Calleigh insisted.

"Of course. I just said it was 10:00 p.m." The woman smiled at Tripp benevolently. "Is she new on the job?"

"No, I'm not new on the job," Calleigh snapped. "Okay, where do you think you saw Winslow?"

"Under the street light, at the corner. I was sitting on my porch in the dark just rocking and remembering. My Harry and I used to sit out there many a night and just watch the neighborhood go by, and nobody ever knew we were there in the dark. Harry's been gone 10 years now, but I still like to imagine what he'd say if we were watching together."

Calleigh gritted her teeth. "Mrs. Sampson, please keep to the subject. You saw someone who looked like Winslow under the street light. Was he on foot or driving? How long was he there? If the man just drove by, you wouldn't get a long look at him."

"Oh, no, he was walking. I noticed particularly, because he looked so bothered. He went down the block toward the intersection with his own street, and then he stopped and turned around and came back. Then he paced circles under the light for a few minutes. He went back down the block about halfway, turned around, turned around again, and then he suddenly started jogging and went off up the street. I remember wondering why he went that way, because his house is two streets the other direction. I saw him for at least 10 minutes, all together."

Calleigh looked at Tripp and found him looking back at her with an "I told you so" expression. She turned back to the witness. "Mrs. Sampson, how good is your eyesight?"

"It's 20-20, even now. I don't even need glasses to read the paper. Harry didn't ever wear glasses, either. It's carrots, I tell you. Always ate carrots, every day, and never had any problems with my eyes."

Calleigh sighed. "Okay, thank you. I'm sure we'll be in touch again." She turned away and left the house, forcing Tripp to half run to catch up with her.

"You admit we need to question Mitchell again?"

"I'm sure there's an explanation. It can't have been him, but they sure must have looked alike."

"Let's ask him," Tripp suggested again. Out of options, Calleigh nodded.

(H/C)

The cell phone rang when they were halfway to the motel where Winslow was staying. Tripp's cell phone, and it took Calleigh a minute to realize that it was Speed. She snatched the phone out of the older man's hand. "Speedle, if you have anything on this case to report, tell it to me."

Speed sighed. "I've been checking Mitchell's alibi."

"I already did."

"Um, well, I did, too. I called a few more marinas. Belle came back into another marina Sunday evening just after dark and left again around midnight. The charge is on his credit card. So is a rental car for just those few hours. I also went to the marina to process the boat; I'm there now. There's a shotgun here, pump action, recently fired and hasn't been cleaned since. There's also equipment for making homemade shells."

"There's some other explanation," Calleigh insisted stubbornly. "He told me he was gone all weekend."

"Can I talk to Tripp again?" Still numb, Calleigh turned the phone over. Her mind was whirling. It wasn't possible. It simply wasn't possible. Why would a shotgun be on a sailboat? He was being framed. That had to be it. Someone else had been hanging around the neighborhood to make people think he was Winslow, and someone else had planted the shotgun on his boat. She had no doubt it would be the murder weapon, but that still didn't make Winslow the murderer.

"Will do," Tripp said and snapped the phone shut. "We've got another stop to make first before the motel."

"Where?" Calleigh asked, her mind only half on the question.

"At a judge, to get a warrant." He looked at her. "If you don't want to be there when I arrest him, that's fine."

Arrest him? Winslow? She shook her head. "He's being framed, Tripp. He didn't do this."

"We'll keep investigating till it's all tied up, but he's a flight risk. I am going to arrest him for now. You coming or not?"

"I'm coming. I want to make sure you give him a chance to tell his story." She stared out the window, not seeing the traffic. "There's some other explanation. There has to be."

(H/C)

Winslow opened the door to the motel room. "Calleigh. Officer Tripp. Is there anything new on the investigation?"

"Yes," Calleigh said. "May we come in?"

"Sure." He stepped back from the door.

Calleigh started off low key, totally different than her interview with Mrs. Sampson. "Winslow, do you enjoy shooting?"

He nodded. "I was in the service, you know. I was a natural marksman, and I've always kept it up. You'd understand that."

She nodded. "Do you know how to pack homemade shotgun shells and make bullets?"

"I know how, but why would I? You can buy them off the shelf. I'm not that much of a fanatic."

Tripp broke in. "So there's no reason that a shotgun and equipment to make shells would be on your sailboat."

Winslow was stunned, and Calleigh would have sworn it was real. "Why on earth would I keep stuff like that on the boat, even if I had it?"

"To get it out of your house, obviously," Tripp said. "Especially if it had been used in a murder."

The trend of the questions finally soaked through the emotional haze of the last few days. "You think I did it? That's crazy."

Calleigh smiled at him. "No, I don't think you did it, but I think someone may be trying to frame you. An investigator did find items on your boat."

"Also," Tripp stated, "there are records that your boat actually returned Sunday night for several hours to a different port where it wouldn't be recognized. Was somebody framing you then, too?"

Winslow abruptly crumpled, his whole body deflating. "Okay, so I came back Sunday night, but I didn't kill her."

"Came back and didn't want anyone to know about it," Tripp emphasized.

"I didn't kill her," Winslow insisted. He appealed to Calleigh. "Calleigh, you know I didn't kill her."

She had been standing there silently for the last few seconds, turmoil behind a mask. "You told me you had been out sailing all weekend, Winslow. From Saturday until Tuesday. You told me."

He looked at the floor, then looked back. "I lied."

She stared at him, and the mask fell away. He had lied. For the moment, the crime seemed greater than murder, even. Winslow, the first to tell her some people could be trusted and to make her believe it, had lied. Abruptly, she whirled on her heel and left the motel room, not even bothering to shut the door, not even aware of her direction, just wanting to escape. Behind her, she heard Tripp's voice. "Winslow Mitchell, you are under arrest for the murder of your wife, Angelina Mitchell. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. . ."

Calleigh fled.

(H/C)

Eventually, of course, she found her way to CSI. Horatio wasn't in his office, but her second haven of Ballistics was available. She grabbed a gun, not caring which, went to the range, and shattered targets into pieces to match her shattered illusions.

He had lied. He had looked straight at her and lied. In retrospect, she realized that his whole manner had been wrong during that conversation by the elevator. It had shifted when she had asked him about the sailing schedule. He wasn't a good enough liar to be convincing at it, but she hadn't noticed, too wrapped up in memories of who he used to be. Fine investigator she was. Another target, over perforated with holes, fell apart.

Desperately, her mind fought to regain control of her emotions. She hadn't seen him in years. He had been held prisoner during that time and had even been believed dead. Events could change people. He simply wasn't the same person she had known back in Darnell. That must be the answer. Not that her trust had been so misplaced, but the object of her trust had changed. The same object of her trust who had told her that not everyone would betray her trust, that she could believe in some people. He had lied.

The more she thought about it, the more furious she was at herself, too. Speed had been right. She had been sloppy on the investigation, and the leads on the boat might have never been found if he hadn't taken the initiative. Framed or guilty, that evidence was crucial. Real fine investigator she was. Emotions shouldn't get in the way of a case.

Unbidden, Winslow's voice replayed in her ear. "I didn't kill her." Was that another lie? She stopped shooting for a minute to consider. He had lied to her and disappointed her, but that didn't necessarily make him a murderer. Even Tripp admitted that the investigation wasn't complete yet, and she had walked out without giving him a chance to explain the true version of his actions Sunday night. She owed it to the memory of what Winslow used to be to thoroughly investigate this. If he was being framed, she could still find out. Liar or not, he had – once – been a good friend at a time when she desperately needed one.

Her spine tingled with a private radar, and she put down her gun, took off the protective gear, and turned to greet the one person who she knew would never lie to her. "Hey."

"Hey." He stood a few feet away from her but didn't come closer. She frowned, studying him. He looked even paler than when he had been sick.

"Are you okay? You're not feeling sick again, are you?" She hurried forward to reach for his forehead, and he stepped back, not answering her question.

"Calleigh, we're switching investigations."

She stared at him. "What?"

"I'm pulling you off Winslow's case. I'll take Winslow myself to complete the investigation, and you have the judge, effective immediately."

She sighed. "Look, Horatio, I know I've been a bit biased on this one, and I've missed things, but I've realized it. I want to finish this one, whether he's guilty or innocent. Speed can double check my work; he was anyway, apparently. Good thing, too."

He shook his head. "It's not open for discussion." His eyes roved over the gun, the target range, anything except her.

"Why not? Give me a chance to correct my mistakes, Horatio."

"I'm sorry, Calleigh, but I have to do this." He still wasn't looking at her, and he still looked absolutely sick. Something wasn't right here, something beyond his pulling her from the case.

"You told me I could keep this case. Wednesday morning, remember?"

"Circumstances have changed since then," he said. His feet were still, but his eyes were pacing.

"Horatio, why are you doing this? You're not telling me everything."

He met her eyes then, briefly. "I'm sorry, Cal, but I can't tell you. I have had both Speed this morning and Tripp this afternoon contact me worried about the way you were handling this case."

"And I've already admitted that I mishandled it. Give me a chance to do better, Horatio. Winslow deserves that, for old time's sake, even if he did lie about his alibi." He flinched, and she abruptly recognized the expression in his eyes. Guilt mixed with fear. She remembered how oddly he had looked at her last night, right after he had walked in on her hugging Winslow, and suddenly, she knew. "You're jealous of him, aren't you? I don't believe it, Horatio. Don't you trust me?"

He flinched again. "You were too close to this case, Cal."

"Too close to the case or just to the victim's husband?" She stepped forward abruptly and caught his chin, forcing him to face her. "Horatio, can you look me in the eye and tell me that the sole reason you're pulling me from this case is for the sake of the investigation, and that there are no personal feelings at all behind your motives?"

His eyes fell, and the guilt was even stronger now. He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

"You don't trust me," she said in disbelief. "You don't trust me to be around him."

He handed her a file, still unable to look her in the eye. "Here are the details on the judge's case."

She turned away from him. "Just put it on the table, boss. Unless you can't trust me not to lose it." Picking up the gun she had been using, she disappeared into the gun vault and shut the heavy door behind her. Horatio looked after her for a minute, but he did not follow. Shoulders still slumped, he turned and walked away.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks for all the feedback. I'll try to get the chapters up quickly. It's this last half of the story that I love especially, anyway. To all advocates of H/C harmony, I totally agree with you, but H and C don't, at least not yet. I'm not quite done torturing them.

(H/C)

"Too many hearts have been broken

Failing to trust what they feel.

Trust isn't something that's spoken,

And love's never wrong when it's real."

Dan Fogelberg, "Believe in Me"

(H/C)

Calleigh stayed in the gun vault for a good half hour, needlessly sorting the weapons there, trying to draw some comfort from them. It didn't work. Her precious firearms all seemed cold and impersonal. She really expected Horatio to come after her when she stalked off, but he didn't, which illogically made her even more mad at him. She finally emerged to return to the shooting range, blowing targets into absolute confetti. Her thoughts echoed like gunfire.

Horatio. She couldn't believe he would question her commitment to him. It even knocked Winslow's failure into a distant second place. In all her life, there had only been two men who stood out as the embodiment of integrity, two men she had known she could count on in an unreliable world. And now, within one day, they had both failed her. The bull's-eye disintegrated, leaving her nothing to aim at, and she continued shooting anyway.

Finally, she stopped, only because she had gone through all the considerable ammunition she had brought along with her. The target range looked like a crime scene. Slowly, she started gathering casings, and as she reached for one that had rolled into a corner, she spotted her watch. It was after 5:00. They needed to be on the way to pick up Rosalind, unless they wanted to incur more late charges from day care. She hurriedly put things back into the illusion of order, hesitating as she saw the file he had left her on the table. She left it there. Tomorrow would be soon enough. She almost wished the judge or his lawyers would call tonight, just so she could have the exquisite pleasure of ripping someone apart.

On leaving Ballistics, she turned for Horatio's office, unwillingly for once. They had both come in his Hummer this morning. Unless she called a taxi, she would be leaving the same way, and Rosalind's car seat was in it. Besides, as a wife and mother, she didn't have the luxury in life any longer of storming off or running away like a child. She had made a commitment, and she would keep it, although the line "till death do us part" was suggesting various attractive interpretations.

Horatio was sitting at his desk with Winslow's file in front of him, but it hadn't been opened. Instead, he was resting his head in both of his hands, and the eloquent slump of his shoulders spoke volumes. Well, if he was feeling guilty, it served him right. "It's time to go get Rosalind," she said briskly. "Unless you want to just give me the keys and take a cab yourself later. I'm leaving."

He raised his head, fixing dull eyes on her. All of their usual sparkle was missing. "No, I'll come, too." He stood up and considered the file in front of him, then picked it up. "I think I'll take this with me, though. Catch up on all the details tonight after Rosalind goes to bed."

"Of course, if there's nothing else you need to do at home," she snapped. She'd hoped he would be a little more willing to talk to her once they weren't in public.

She saw the hurt flare up briefly in his eyes before he hid it. She had always been a good shot. She would have regretted it if he had been ready to discuss his decision and apologize to her, but he only looked down quickly, analyzing his shoes. In stiff silence, they left CSI together.

(H/C)

By unspoken agreement, they both tried to put on a front of normalcy for Rosalind. Horatio was as helpful as always in cooking, and dinner conversation was animated, if forced. Rosalind was looking at them both oddly by the end of the meal, though.

"Piano, Dada," she suggested as Horatio lifted her down onto the floor.

"I don't really feel like . . .well, okay, Angel. As soon as I help your mother load the dishwasher."

"I can get it, Horatio, thanks. Go ahead and play for her." Calleigh started cleaning off the table, not looking at him.

He settled onto the bench with Rosalind in his lap, absolutely motionless so she wouldn't interfere. She adored music and wouldn't have dreamed of disrupting it. Once he started playing, though, his mood took control of his fingers, and Calleigh realized that he was playing Dan Fogelberg's old song "Believe in Me."

Exactly, she thought. Trust isn't something that's spoken. But why don't you listen to it, Horatio, instead of just playing it. You're the one who needs to get the message. She fought back tears again and again won the battle.

After the music, Horatio read a book to Rosalind and then kissed her goodnight. Calleigh took her daughter down the hall, got her ready for bed, and rocked her to sleep. After tucking her in, she left the nursery, carefully closing the door behind her, and headed down the hall with determination. Enough for the facade. Now, it was time for some heart-to-heart marital conversation.

Horatio was at the kitchen table and had just opened Winslow's file. Calleigh shut it firmly and sat down across from him. "We need to talk," she said.

His eyes remained glued to the file, not meeting hers. "I know," he admitted. "But not now, Calleigh."

Her reasonable intentions flew out the window. "When do you suggest? Later, in front of Rosalind? In front of CSI? Out on the street? Do tell me when you want to talk, so I can be sure to schedule it."

He flinched. "I can't."

"Horatio, listen to yourself. We've had our share of fights in this marriage, anybody does, but when something involves both of us, even if we disagree, we don't just refuse to talk about it. I'm your wife. You owe me that."

He finally looked at her, and there was naked appeal in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Cal, but I just can't talk about this right now."

Furious, she stood up and reopened his file. "Then by all means, don't let me keep you from what you'd rather be doing. I'll be in the bedroom. Alone, and Winslow's safe in jail, so you can set your mind at rest for tonight." She stalked out and only barely kept herself from slamming the bedroom door behind her. Might wake up Rosalind, which she definitely didn't want to do at the moment. She closed the door gently, then threw herself on their bed and finally, though silently, let herself cry.

(H/C)

Breakfast was an ordeal of acting. "Here's the butter, Horatio." You didn't even come to bed until 2:00 a.m. If you cared about my feelings, you would have followed me earlier.

"Thank you, Calleigh." His thoughts were closed, and for once, she couldn't read them.

"Hurry up, Rosalind. We don't want to be late." Not that work is going to be much better today.

"Yes, we need to get to work. I've got to get Winslow's case solved."

Of course, you could just leave it to me, Horatio. You would, if you trusted me. "Let me wipe your fingers off, Rosalind."

Rosalind looked from one of them to the other. "Good morning?" she asked, managing to make it a question.

"Good morning, Angel," they replied in stiff unison, like robots. A model family, enjoying breakfast together.

(H/C)

After entering Ballistics, Calleigh stared at the judge's file, waiting for her. First, she decided, she would go see Winslow. She wanted to apologize for walking out yesterday without listening to his story, and she especially wanted to make sure he realized that it wasn't her decision to go off his case. She didn't want him to think she had just abandoned him to his fate in disgust.

She marched into the holding cells complex at police HQ. "Which cell is Winslow Mitchell in, please?" she asked the security guard at the desk as she flashed her badge. "I need to see him."

He squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Caine, but you aren't allowed to visit the prisoner."

She stared at him. "What?"

"Your name has been placed on the forbidden list for Mr. Mitchell. I'm sorry." The guard eyed her growing fury and unobtrusively brushed his hand against his gun and night stick, making sure he could defend himself if needed.

It wasn't. She wheeled abruptly, heading for the door. "I'm going to kill him."

The guard looked after her and breathed a sigh of relief. Whomever she was heading off to kill, at least he didn't have to deal with her. He'd seen hardened criminals who looked less dangerous than the petite wildcat who had just left.

(H/C)

Horatio was on the phone when Calleigh stormed in. She slammed the office door, then stopped in front of his desk and fixed him with a laser glare. "Um, excuse me, Captain, I have to go. I assure you, this investigation isn't going to suffer at all for the change." He hung up and raised an eyebrow at her. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? How dare you ask me at the moment what's wrong? What the hell do you think you're doing, Horatio Caine?" She leaned over the desk, and he actually pulled back from her.

"Calleigh, I have no idea – acutely – what you're talking about. If this is just about me pulling you from the case . . ."

"How dare you put a block on me seeing Winslow at the holding cells?"

Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he spent a few seconds scrambling for words, obviously dodging around the real reason. "You're not on his case anymore, Calleigh. You haven't got any reason to see him, not in the cells, anyway."

"I don't believe this. Do you think we'd be committing adultery right in front of the security guards? I thought you were being paranoid enough last night, but this is even worse. He's just a friend, Horatio. I have a right to my friends."

He shut down, barriers complete with concertina wire clicking into place. "I told you last night, Calleigh, I can't talk about this with you. I'm sorry."

A knock sounded at the office door, and both of them looked to see Speed standing outside. "Just a minute," Calleigh called. She turned back to Horatio and lowered her voice. "Horatio, I want you to promise me something – for whatever that's worth." That hit him harder than anything yet, and she was glad of it. "Promise me that you will honestly make an effort on this investigation to find out the truth and won't just use it as an excuse to get Winslow out of the way. Don't blame him for your suspicions; he hasn't done anything. Neither have I."

His wounded blue eyes met hers. "I promise you I'll give it everything I have. Do the same on the judge, okay? It is a big case. I wouldn't give it to you unless I trusted you."

She turned on her heel. "If you trusted me, you wouldn't do a lot of things you've done in the last day. But I'll do my job. And would you give Winslow a message that . . . no, actually, I'll send it by messenger. That way, I'll make sure it gets delivered." She opened the door and stalked out, nearly knocking over Speed.

Speed entered the office. "She's mad about going off the case, huh?"

"That's an understatement," Horatio replied.

"It's best, though. You didn't work with her on this one, H. She was wearing blinders." He sat down in front of the desk. "You wanted to see me?"

"Right. I spent several hours last night looking through the file, but I want to hear everything from you. Start at the beginning." With an effort, Horatio forced himself to focus – at least partially - on the case.

(H/C)

Calleigh reluctantly stared at the judge's file. She didn't want to open it. That would be the final admission that she was irrevocably off Winslow's case. She eyed the leap, and Eric, entering Ballistics, pushed her over. "Calleigh, H said I'm working with you now on this judge's wife. Want to hear a recap so far?"

She pushed the closed file away. "Sure. Start at the beginning." With an effort, Calleigh forced herself to focus – at least partially – on the case.

(H/C)

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of activity. Calleigh got the pleasure of talking to and absolutely annihilating the judge's campaign manager. The judge had spent the night before the murder out with his lover, and he had come in at mid morning to find his wife shot dead in their bed. The mistress confirmed the story but with a shiftiness about her that Eric and Calleigh both thought rang false. Calleigh got a subpoena for bank accounts, both the judge's and the mistress's, looking for a payoff, while Eric worked on processing the evidence from the house. Adele was doing the legwork, talking to people in the neighborhood. One thought she had heard a car backfire at 3:00 a.m. Alexx's post gave TOD as right around 3:00 a.m.

Calleigh stared at the bank account records on the screen, but she kept finding her mind slipping away from them. How could Horatio have suddenly turned into such a paranoid controller? It just didn't make sense. She wasn't like the judge, whose whole attitude was that his marriage vows had merely been a business deal, an arrangement for a suitable companion to appear with him in pictures and give him in his ambitions a sense of being a "family man." Talking to him almost physically made her sick. Her parting shot in the interview, which Eric said later he wished he had had on tape, was, "Judge, did you take vows at your wedding?"

"Of course," he replied condescendingly.

"They must have been interesting ones." She had turned away from his lawyer's flurry of objections and walked out of the interview room.

Vows. She had never given Horatio any reason to mistrust her, and her own vows had included the part about "forsaking all others." She'd meant it, too, and she'd fulfilled it. Why was he suddenly going off the deep end just because Winslow Mitchell had come back into her life?

Her radar, unaware that she was mad at him, was still functioning at full efficiency, and she felt Horatio enter the computer room before he spoke. She turned and raised an eyebrow, not getting up. "What do you want?" He looked absolutely awful, almost physically sick himself. She remembered for the first time today that he had been up studying that file – presumably – until 2:00 a.m., and he hadn't slept soundly even after he made it to bed. Unconsciously, she softened her tone. "What is it, Horatio?"

"It's time to go get Rosalind. Do you want to get her, or should I?" They had brought separate vehicles that morning.

"I'll do it."

"I'll start cooking, then. I'll try to have it ready for you."

"Thank you." It might have been a conversation between strangers. Calleigh was having to fight back the questions she wanted to ask, but she knew by now that there was no point. He wasn't going to talk to her.

"Productive day?" he asked, looking past her to the paperwork on the judge's case and the computer screen.

"Pretty much. I got to make the judge and his campaign manager both look like fools."

The ghost of his smile haunted his lips briefly. "Wish I'd been there."

"You could have," she reminded him. "It was your case."

He locked up instantly on her. "I'll see you at home," he said, turning away.

"Horatio!" He stopped short at the appeal in her voice, but his eyes, his whole posture warned her. Don't ask, they said. Please don't ask.

Calleigh sighed. "Can you at least give me an update on Winslow's case?"

He jumped at that like a drowning man latching onto a life preserver. "Winslow gave me his final version of Sunday night. He had been warned in an anonymous note that his wife was cheating on him with his best friend and that they met routinely on Sunday nights when he was out of town – which he was a good bit. He often went sailing on the weekends and didn't get back until Monday. He had a Tuesday through Saturday work schedule, usually, although he was on vacation at the moment. This note suggested that he come back surreptitiously late Sunday, and he'd see for himself. He tore the note up and threw it away. I've been searching the trash for it; no luck so far. He says he came in Sunday night to a strange port, rented a car that his wife wouldn't recognize, then parked it a few blocks away, just to make sure. But then, he says, he couldn't actually make himself go to his house to spy on her. He couldn't face knowing the fact, and he wanted to trust her. So he paced around for a while, as Mrs. Sampson noted, then went back to his rental car and back to his boat. He says he never went up to the house. Tox tests from Alexx show that the wife had been heavily sedated. She had had sex not too long before her death, so the cheating story is quite possibly true. The time table from the other marina is awfully tight for Winslow to have come in, driven to his house, made love to her, drugged her, had the drug take effect, and then killed her and gotten back. It would be nearly impossible. The gun on the boat is the murder weapon. No prints at all on it. The shell-making equipment doesn't have prints on it, either, so far. Speed is processing every nook and crevice he can find of things from that boat, looking for fingerprints other than Winslow's. He liked sailing alone and didn't usually have friends on the boat. He didn't mention any of this at first because he felt guilty; if he had gone up to the house, he might have met the killer. Since he didn't go there, he didn't think it was relevant, and he didn't want to brand her as a cheater after her death. We're looking for the handgun, too. Even if it wasn't the murder weapon, its user was involved. I've been searching the dumpsters and drains in the neighborhood. Tripp is continuing to talk to everyone. The police logs confirm Mrs. Sampson's story that there were noise complaints in that neighborhood late on almost every weekend night. It's so consistent that we think the killer knew this and used that opportunity to kill her when the shot wouldn't be as noticeable in all the heavy bass booming and cars. If someone did hear it, they'd probably put it down to a backfire. The handgun was probably silenced, but the police call fits right in with the timeline for the shotgun. The perp knows this neighborhood, knows Winslow, sent that note, and probably was Mrs. Mitchell's lover. Winslow's best friend checks out and swears he never had a relationship with the wife."

Calleigh had been absorbing all this silently. "I missed that," she said once he stopped. "I wasn't even tying the noise comments into the possible time of death. It would explain the shotgun not being heard."

He nodded. "Anyway, it's a good day's work. I'll do more paperwork on it tonight."

The moment of mutual focus on the case shattered. He didn't intend to talk to her tonight, either. Obviously, he had no objection to her knowing the latest on Winslow's case. It was just Winslow himself he was keeping her from. She turned her back on him so he wouldn't see the threatening tears before she could gain control of them. "I'll shut down here and pick up Rosalind. Go on."

He stood there for a moment, eying her back, hearing the barely held tears in her voice. With a sigh, he turned away.


	8. Chapter 8

Here's a bonus chapter in honor of a rainy day that prevented doing any work out on the farm this morning. There's a bit of a shift here, but we're far from being out of the woods yet with H/C. Probably 2-3 more chapters left on Betrayal (I'm never sure on length until I actually write them down). Reviews will determine when you get them. :)

(H/C)

"Something deeply hidden had to be behind things."

Albert Einstein

(H/C)

Calleigh awoke slowly, feeling sleep-logged. She hadn't gotten to sleep at all until after 1:30, when Horatio had come to bed finally, and it had taken a few more hours to really get soundly out. Her mind wouldn't shut down, like a dog gnawing a bone.

The morning light was spilling through the windows, already quite bright. She knew Horatio was up already; the other half of the bed behind her was empty and cold. Rolling over, she looked at the clock. Almost 8:00 a.m. She'd needed the sleep, but she still felt unrested. Maybe if she just ignored the morning and went back to sleep, she'd wake up again with everything all right.

The house was shrouded in silence. Even Rosalind, who was normally up by now, was quiet. Unless Horatio had taken her out on the beach or something and left Calleigh to sleep late. She sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed. Hope heard and came running, jumping up on the bed and starting her breakfast-anticipating purr. "In a minute," Calleigh told her, standing up.

Rosalind was still asleep, curled around her favorite stuffed horse. Horatio was nowhere to be found. It was only on her second round through the house, as if she could have missed him the first time, that she thought to check the refrigerator door, their usual message center. He had left a note. "Calleigh, I've gone out for a run. Back soon. Love, Horatio."

Love. She studied the word. Why was he acting so suspicious lately, then? She had once, very briefly, questioned his faithfulness herself, although he never knew it, but that was only for a few hours under stress, and she'd quickly realized how absurd the idea was. The last few days weren't just a passing thought under stress but a bull-headed course of action that he absolutely refused to discuss or reconsider. "I love you, too, Horatio," she told the refrigerator, "but why won't you talk to me about this?"

"Mama? Dada?" Rosalind's voice echoed down the hall, and Calleigh sighed and put on a mask for her daughter as she headed to the nursery.

"Good morning, Angel." She lifted her out of the crib.

"Good morning. Dada?"

"He went out for a run, Rosalind. He'll be back soon." Rosalind accepted it. Whenever one of them went jogging these days, the other always stayed behind with her. "And then, guess what we're going to do? This is Saturday, Rosalind. Remember about Saturday?"

Rosalind perked up. "To the park!"

"Right. To celebrate all being well this weekend." Calleigh had never felt less like celebrating, but Rosalind would have remembered the agenda shortly, anyway. She knew when she didn't go to day care, it was the weekend, and she would never forget a promised trip to the park. Horatio at least seemed to agree with Calleigh on this much; they were both acting like everything was fine in front of their daughter. She fixed breakfast for the two of them and then settled down to wait for Horatio.

After one hour, Calleigh was surprised. After an hour and a half, she was annoyed. After two, she was starting to get worried. She played with Rosalind, trying to appear casual, but she found her fingers itching for the phone, then pulling back. Calling would put her in the position of appeal, and she was absolutely determined that he should be the first one to close the distance. She had nothing to apologize for. His list was growing by the minute, now including worrying her and his daughter.

What if something had really happened? She remembered vividly the morning a few years ago that Horatio had set off on a routine jog and disappeared for two days after being mugged. Her hand leaped for the phone of its own volition, and she had hit speed dial before her pride could stop her.

Two rings, and he picked up his cell. "Hi." He didn't say good morning, but he didn't sound hurt, either. Just guilty.

"Where are you?" It came out quite sharply, and Rosalind, in the floor with Hope, looked up at her mother in surprise. Calleigh forced the fury under the surface. Nothing was physically wrong. He just didn't want to be home, apparently. "We're waiting for you, Horatio."

"I'm sorry, Calleigh. I just lost track of things out running, and I went farther than I realized. I'm almost home now. About 10 minutes."

He had lost track of things. Horatio never lost track of things. He was a walking database of organization. "Well, hurry up," she said, trying not to snap at him in front of Rosalind.

Her daughter reached for the phone. "Dada?"

"Here, talk to your daughter for a minute. You had her worried." Calleigh thrust the phone at her daughter. Horatio had had her worried, too, but she wasn't going to admit it. Not when nothing had been wrong.

Only something was wrong. She knew it, he knew it, and even Rosalind had no doubt by now. "Okay, Dada?" her daughter said. Calleigh couldn't hear Horatio's response, but it must have reassured Rosalind. She relaxed, rattling off a story about birds she had seen on the beach that morning. Calleigh went into the kitchen to fix a cup of tea for herself and to escape her daughter's perceptive presence. Once there, she found herself staring at the cabinet doors like they would provide the answers she was seeking.

"Bye, Dada." Rosalind trotted into the kitchen, holding out the cordless phone. "Dada said bye. Home soon."

Calleigh took the phone from her and hit end. "Thank you, Rosalind."

Rosalind looked at her. "Mama okay?"

"I'm fine, Angel. We'll go to the park soon." She realized that the microwave was no longer running, although she hadn't heard it stop. She removed her cup and put in a tea bag.

"Hope, too?"

"We are not taking Hope to the park with us," Calleigh said firmly. Ever since seeing a few people in the park who had brought along their dogs, Rosalind had been campaigning to take the cat.

The front door finally opened, and Rosalind turned and ran into the living room. Calleigh followed more slowly.

"Dada!"

He bent to pick her up and hug her, lifting her up toward the ceiling before setting her back down again.

"Good morning, Angel. Sorry I wasn't here when you woke up. I just went out for a little run." He smiled tentatively at Calleigh. "Good morning, Cal."

"Good morning." Rosalind looked from one of them to the other, head slightly tilted. Horatio walked a few steps to the desk to put his cell phone and his keys on the corner in their spot.

"You're limping," Calleigh noted, concern flooding back in. Not much, but he was favoring that leg.

He gave her a reassuring smile, or an attempt at one. "I'm fine, Cal. Like I said, I went a lot farther than I'd meant to. Just lost track of time, and then I had to come back, too."

She studied him. Not only a lot farther but a lot faster, she deduced. His hair was absolutely plastered to his head, and he had sweated extensively through his sweatshirt on this January morning. Simply going for a run wasn't enough to bother him. He must have been running full speed over a long route, something he hardly ever did anymore, so consumed that he probably had not even been aware that he had jolted his leg. What had he been running from? Whatever it was, he hadn't escaped it. His eyes were still hooded, and she knew he wasn't going to let her in. "You should have called me to come get you."

"I didn't want to bother you," he replied.

Calleigh bit back several possible responses to that. Not in front of Rosalind, she told herself firmly. "You'd better go take a shower. Have you had breakfast?" His surprised look answered the question. No, he hadn't even thought of breakfast. "I'll fix you something while you shower."

"Thanks, Cal. After that, I'm going to go in to work, see what I can do on Winslow's case today. I know it's Saturday, but there might be people home today to talk to who weren't there before."

Rosalind had been listening to this whole exchange, looking back and forth from one to the other of them like she was watching a ping-pong game, but now, she suddenly spoke up. "No, Dada! To the park!"

Horatio smiled at her. "I'm sorry, Rosalind. Maybe Mama can take you to the park today, but I have to work. Some other time, okay?" She stared at him, stunned, and for once, Horatio didn't follow her expression and had to look back to Calleigh for translation.

"You promised her we'd all go to the park today, no matter what. Wednesday night, you promised. Remember?"

He literally jumped. "I'm sorry. I'd forgotten."

Calleigh was going to choke if she had to swallow many more of her words. "Rosalind, why don't you go back to your room and pick out what toys you want to take? We're going to the park. All of us." Rosalind hesitated, looking back and forth between them again. Waves of tension crackled in the room. "Go on, Angel. It's okay." Rosalind headed up the hall at a slow walk, far from her usual scamper, and Calleigh latched onto Horatio's arm and dragged him into the end of the kitchen, the farthest point of the house from Rosalind's room. She spun to face him squarely once they reached the cabinets. "What is wrong with you?" Her voice was a low hiss, like a snake, and he flinched. "You are going to keep your promise to your daughter, even if you break them to me."

His eyes fell away from hers, unable to stand what he was reading there. "I'm sorry, Cal. I just forgot I'd promised her."

"You don't forget things like that. At least, you never used to. Why are this case and keeping me away from Winslow suddenly more important to you than your own family?"

"They aren't, Cal. Believe me, you and Rosalind are the most important part of my life."

"You aren't doing a very good job of showing it lately."

"I'm sorry," he repeated helplessly.

"Sorry doesn't mean much unless something changes, Horatio. Are you going to let me back on the case and start trusting me again?"

"I do trust you, Calleigh."

She revised the question. "Are you going to prove it by letting me back on the case?"

"I can't. I wish I could, but I just can't."

She turned her back on him, opening the cabinet. "Go take a shower, Horatio. I'll fix you breakfast, and then, we're going to the park with our daughter as a family, and you are going to at least act like you're enjoying it, for her sake. I'm old enough to stand disappointment, but she's not."

He touched her shoulder, and she pulled away from him. After a few seconds, he turned, and she heard his footsteps retreating. She abruptly noticed her cup of tea still sitting on the cabinet untouched, and she put out a hand against the cup to test it. It was going cold.

(H/C)

The family outing took the rest of the day. After they ate lunch from a concession stand in the park, they spent the final part of the afternoon at the zoo, Rosalind's choice. She especially loved the big cats. All together, it should have been a wonderful family day, but neither Horatio nor Calleigh enjoyed it. She kept finding him looking at her with the oddest expression in his eyes. Rosalind was a bit subdued, too, although she enjoyed seeing the animals.

When they finally got home, Rosalind was thoroughly tired out and went to bed early without complaint. Calleigh really expected Horatio to do the same. Not only had he slept little and badly the last few nights, but he had run himself into the ground this morning and then walked around all day. He needed the rest. When she came back from tucking in Rosalind, though, he was already settled at the kitchen table with the ever-present case.

"Are you working tonight, too?" She tried to keep disappointment out of her voice.

He looked up at her briefly. "I'm sorry, Cal. I can't talk about it; I told you that."

"Actually, I wasn't expecting you to talk about it tonight. I've gotten the point by now that you won't discuss things, even if it annoys me. I just thought you could use some rest."

He relaxed somewhat, relieved to be off the dangerous subject. "I'm okay, Calleigh."

"You've hardly slept the last two nights, you're just getting over being sick before that, and I still can't believe what you did this morning. How's the leg?"

He gave her an honest answer, which surprised her. His own health was the one area he'd try to lie about under normal conditions. "It aches a little, but I didn't do any real harm. I really didn't mean to go that far, Calleigh, and once I realized I was bothering it, I stopped and walked all the way home. I'll know better next time."

"You knew better anyway," she pointed out. "What were you thinking of?"

He took the question literally and dodged back behind his wall instead of answering. "I'll try not to work so late on Winslow's case tonight. Tomorrow, I'm going to spend the day at CSI, though. I didn't promise Rosalind anything for Sunday, did I?"

She bit back a sharp response when she realized that it was an honest question. He wasn't trusting his memory. Horatio, not trusting his memory. Amazing. "No, you didn't. Horatio, when I asked you to make a real effort on this case, I didn't mean you needed to work on it 24/7. You're going to wear yourself out."

He smiled at her, but his temporary relaxation had vanished. "I'm fine," he insisted, and this time, she knew it was a lie.

She gave up, walking over to the microwave. "You want a cup of tea? I'm fixing myself one."

"That sounds good. Thanks, Cal." Neither of them said anything for a few minutes as she worked. He seemed totally focused on the file and apparently lost track of her, because he jumped slightly as she put the tea and two Tylenol next to him. "I'm going to bed. Don't stay up too late with this, Horatio."

"I won't," he replied, and it was another lie. It was 3:00 a.m. before he joined her. She knew he realized she woke up, but they lay there in the darkness and silence, and neither one of them said a word.

(H/C)

Horatio didn't get in Sunday night until almost midnight, and he was as distant as usual these days, a totally locked, noncommunicative shell of his former self. They went to bed with eight inches and a canyon between them, and even after exhaustion had forced him into unwilling sleep, Calleigh lay awake staring into the darkness, looking for answers and not finding them. What on earth was wrong with him? Since yesterday morning, the hurt from Thursday night had slowly begun to be replaced by concern. Horatio seemed absolutely possessed by something, and she was starting to realize that it wasn't merely Winslow or the case. Something was badly wrong here, something she didn't understand. She vividly remembered a man in Darnell who had died of a brain tumor, and the first symptoms, even before anyone knew he was ill, were irrational personality shifts and paranoia. And last night, Horatio really hadn't been certain how much he remembered or how accurate it was.

She still was stunned at yesterday. He had never forgotten a promise to his daughter before. The job might intervene sometimes, but to simply forget wasn't Horatio. Her hands clenched on the blanket. That was it exactly. He wasn't acting like Horatio. She was married to a stranger. And yet the eyes, the expression, the almost-pleading note in his voice told her that he realized it as much as she did. But why wouldn't he talk to her? She was sure she could help him work through this, that things could be resolved if they could just talk it out. Part of her, too, was still annoyed and hurt, not just by being pulled from the case and by his ungrounded suspicions but by the fact that he refused to discuss it. After three years, including working with him on his mother's death and supporting him through the long convalescence after he'd hurt his leg, she'd thought he could trust her with anything at this point. She had been wrong.

She finally slid into restless sleep, only to be woken up a few hours later by Horatio. He was twisting, fighting something in his sleep, the covers being dragged off of her into a frantic knot. She reached over to touch him, and every muscle in his body was tense, his face slick with sweat. He pulled away from her hands, muttering something unintelligible, and his ragged breathing was loud in the quiet house. She caught him again by the shoulder, shaking him with gentle firmness. "Horatio! Come on, wake up, Horatio!"

He snapped awake abruptly, bolting up, halfway out of the bed before reality kicked in and he recognized his surroundings. He fell back limply against the mattress, and she pulled him against her, feeling his racing heartbeat. "It's okay, Horatio. Easy. It's okay."

He latched onto her with a grip tight enough to hurt. "Calleigh?"

"I'm here. Were you dreaming about your mother?" That was the only nightmare she could think of that affected him this strongly. Probably the crime scene photos from Winslow's case had reminded him.

"Yes." His voice was shaky. "But then it changed, and it was you. I'd lost you." He pressed closer against her, and his hands were trembling.

"I'm right here, perfectly fine. You're not going to lose me." Was it losing her he was afraid of? Had Winslow just been the symbolic embodiment of a much-older fear? Whatever it was, why didn't he trust her with it? "Horatio, why won't you just talk about it? Why are you suddenly shutting me out like this?"

He gave a shuddering sigh, and for once, he didn't reply that he couldn't talk to her. Instead, his voice was a desperate plea, barely audible, whispered into the darkness. "Hold me, Cal. Please, just hold me."

She held him.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9. Two more to go.

"When you can't do something, just stand there."

Anonymous, advice for true friends.

(H/C)

Speed entered CSI Monday morning to find Horatio already waiting in Trace. "Speed, I've come up with a few things yesterday for you to check out." He handed over a list, neatly written, and Speed's eyes widened.

"Yesterday was the weekend, H," he noted. He wondered if Horatio had slept at all since pulling Calleigh from the case, and the fierce intensity in his supervisor was really starting to worry him. Yet Horatio's work had been absolutely brilliant Friday, turning up more new leads in an 8-hour shift than Speed, with several days already on the case, had thought possible. Professionally, he was certainly hitting on all cylinders. It must just be his fight with Calleigh that was bothering him. Speed would rather get out of the house than spend the weekend cooped up with a mad Calleigh, too.

"I took half of it," Horatio countered. "Didn't work Saturday. You've processed the house thoroughly, you said. Did you include the outside?"

"I took a walk around, looking for forced entry or anything, but there weren't any signs of it."

"Did you pay attention to the plants or dig around them?"

"What?"

"Bushes. She was mulching bushes last Saturday morning. Nice and easy to bury something in, like a handgun."

"Why would anybody put the handgun under a bush at the house? Safer to take it away with them. Have you found anything in the dumpsters?" He still couldn't believe that he hadn't been assigned to dumpster duty himself.

"No, and after this long, they've probably all been emptied. I just thought of the bushes last night driving home. Say you wanted to have the gun found at the scene but didn't want to make it look obvious that you wanted it to be found. The fresh mulch was right there. It was dark, but we're already convinced the perp – or perps, if a different one had the handgun - knew the neighborhood."

Speed shrugged. "Could be, I guess. No, I didn't dig around the bushes. There wasn't a gun just lying on the ground under any of them. I would have noticed that."

"I'll be at the house. Keep me posted." Horatio left at a fast walk, looking hurried for once instead of his usual smooth stride. Speed looked down at his to-investigate list, sighed, and counted the points. There were 22.

(H/C)

Calleigh opened the door of the autopsy bay. "Are you busy, Alexx?"

Alexx read the tone for herself and instantly assumed the attitude of someone with all the time in the world. "Nothing that won't wait. What's bothering you, honey?"

Calleigh stepped on in and closed the door firmly, glancing up to the empty observation room. Horatio was undoubtedly off somewhere on Winslow's case, but she didn't really want anyone else to overhear this, either.

Alexx followed the look. "Why don't we go down the street to that cafe for a cup of coffee?"

"That would be great, Alexx. I need some advice."

"I was just doing paperwork at the moment, and friends are more important. Come on, I'll treat."

Once they were settled in the cafe over coffee, Alexx sat back in her chair, ready to listen. "Okay, spill it, Calleigh. I've been worried about both of you lately."

"Both of us?" That one hadn't even occurred to her.

Alexx read her expression. "Yes, both of you. The last several days, Horatio looks like he's strained to the breaking point, and you look like you've just had a root canal."

"You know Horatio pulled me off Winslow's case?"

Alexx nodded. "Everybody in CSI knows that. Actually, most people think he was justified, that you were too close to this one. Everybody also knows that you're mad at him for it, which they all expected. But there's more than that going on here, isn't there?"

"That's just it. At first, I thought he was only being jealous of Winslow, but I'm starting to think something's really wrong with him. He absolutely refuses to talk to me, and that's not usual. Not on something that comes between us. Even when we do have a fight, we talk about it and get it out in the open. Then there was this weekend . . . Alexx, he isn't thinking straight at all, and he was actually forgetting things. Important things, I mean." She detailed the last few days, and Alexx's expression was as concerned as hers by the end of it.

"He actually put a block on you even seeing Winslow at the cells?"

"Yes. Can you believe that?"

Alexx shook her head firmly. "No, I can't."

"I confronted him with it, Alexx. He said there was no reason I needed to see him."

"I'm starting to see what you mean about his not acting like himself. His forgetting a promise to Rosalind is just as out of character. I agree, there's more than jealousy here. It sounds like he's absolutely consumed with something, throwing all his attention on it, so much that he's forgetting details from anything else. Doesn't mean that you and Rosalind aren't important, just that he can't possibly deal with everything at the moment because he would hit overload. But it would take more than an old friend of yours turning up to do that to him. He isn't that insecure, honey. Not about you, not any more."

"That's what I thought. That's why it hit me so hard when he went all jealous. But now I'm wondering . . ." Calleigh's voice trailed off.

"What?"

"That's the main thing I wanted to ask you about. When I was a kid, back in Darnell, there was a man who owned a store downtown. He was quite friendly to the kids, but then suddenly, he turned into somebody else at times. It was almost Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Paranoid didn't even start to describe it, but other times, he was just as usual. It turned out he had a brain tumor, and it killed him eventually."

Alexx shook her head. "No. Definitely not. Horatio doesn't have a brain tumor, Calleigh."

"How could you tell without someone running tests?"

"The timetable isn't right. I know it seems like a quick change in retrospect, but I'm sure this man in Darnell started out with brief periods of moodiness, just a few minutes here and there, and they gradually increased in strength and frequency over months. What you're describing with Horatio is an extended change over several days where there was no previous history at all, and there's no alternation back to his baseline along with it. That doesn't fit. People with brain tumors don't jump from normal to that level of change suddenly." Calleigh gave a sigh of relief, and Alexx smiled at her. "No, I think he's just extremely distracted, but I can't tell you by what. I agree, it isn't Winslow Mitchell. He does trust you, Calleigh."

"But what do I do? It's so strange, Alexx, it's like having two different conversations. He'll totally lock up on me, worse than he's ever done, and then he'll look at me like he wants nothing more than to talk about it. But he won't."

Alexx gave her a sympathetic look. "I don't know what to tell you, Calleigh. If you don't know what's bothering him, none of us do. He'd talk to you before anybody else."

Calleigh stared into her almost-empty coffee cup. "I'm just afraid something's really wrong with him. This is tearing us both up, Alexx, and he knows it, and he still won't discuss it." She looked up. "What would you do?"

"If it were Jonathan, I'd stop pushing him to talk, since there's such an obvious block there, and I'd just try to support him the best I could, remind him I was there for him, even when he was acting out of character. And if it went on for any length of time, I'd take stronger measures, but this has only been a few days."

"It seems like a lifetime."

"No. A lifetime is what you have together. This is only a few days. I'm not saying nothing's wrong, something's obviously very wrong, but whatever is eating at him, he's going to have to pick the time to talk. And he will eventually, Calleigh. Believe me, he will, if you just stay there for him. The love you two have can get you through this."

Calleigh smiled at her. "Thanks, Alexx. I needed that."

"Keep your chin up, Calleigh. And anytime you need to talk, I'm here for you. May not know what to do, but I can listen with the best of them." It was Alexx's turn to stare into her coffee. "Not that it's any of my business, but I've had a question I wanted to ask you for the last week."

"Which is?"

"Have you and Horatio been talking about other children?"

Calleigh easily connected the dots. "You thought that since I was acting so moody and snappish with Winslow's case at first, I might be pregnant."

Alexx grinned at her. "Can't help wondering, sweetie."

"No, I'm not. We have talked about it a little since Rosalind was born, but neither one of us is ready. We're just enjoying her at the moment. We won't definitely say she's an only child yet, but really, we're all content that way, unless God has other plans. About last week, I'll admit I was totally biased on the case at first, and Speed saved that whole investigation. But it was just the shock of finding my former best friend involved in a case."

Alexx nodded. "I can understand that. I just wasn't used to seeing you that rattled on the job."

"I'd never had another friend like him until Horatio." Effortlessly, her mind switched back to her chief concern. "You really think he's okay physically, Alexx?"

Alexx considered for a minute. "I'd definitely say he doesn't have a brain tumor. I'd also say what's bothering him isn't originally physical. But I saw him this morning for a few minutes, and he looked awful. If he doesn't slow down or resolve whatever it is soon, he's going to drive himself into collapse."

Calleigh nodded. "I just wish he'd talk to me. I could help, I know it."

"He will eventually, honey. Let's just hope he doesn't pass out on a case first." They both stood and discarded their empty cups. "But I'm absolutely certain of one thing, Calleigh. He does love you, and you and Rosalind are still the most important part of his life."

"Thanks, Alexx." Together, they headed back for CSI. Calleigh's worst fear from yesterday had been proven groundless, but that left her back at the original question. What was wrong with him?


	10. Chapter 10

One more chapter after this, and that one will get it all tied up nicely with a bow on top for you. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

"There are crimes of which the motive is want . . . But want is not the sole incentive to crime . . . The greatest crimes are caused by excess and not by necessity."

Aristotle

(H/C)

Horatio's mind was wandering as he aimed the Hummer toward the Mitchell's house once again. The more tired he got, the harder it was to focus. The case, think of the case. As much as he knew the rest of his life was collapsing around him these days, there was nothing he could do about it, but he still could do his job. That was the one area where he could still make a difference.

What hadn't he thought of? He had to make sure he wasn't missing that vital link, wherever it was. He knew he was distracted, but he couldn't let it affect his work.

Sailboats. Many of them, including Belle, had backup engines for use if absolutely needed, so it wasn't out of reason for the shells to have had traces of high-octane fuel, but that seemed to point to the perp having a marine connection, too. The four friends Winslow mentioned who shared his interest in boats had all checked out absolutely clean with excellent alibis, including the best friend implicated in the anonymous note. Had he missed something with them? Was Winslow forgetting someone?

The handgun. Finding the handgun would be a big step, and he'd combed the neighborhood dumpsters and drains thoroughly, but it wasn't there. He couldn't blame Speed for not checking under the bushes thoroughly; Horatio himself hadn't thought of that until last night. How much else hadn't he thought of? So much evidence had been in the house and nothing visible outside; it had been an easy mistake for Speed to make – if it had been a mistake. They had to find that gun. The handgun, even though it wasn't the murder weapon, was much more likely to lead them to a name. Any name would at least be a new lead. The shotgun had been useless in that regard. It had originally been purchased decades ago by a man now dead who lived in another state and had no ties to anyone in that neighborhood that Horatio could turn up. Older weapons especially could often change hands privately. It was probably several people removed from the original owner at this point, and there was no way at all to trace private deals, especially older ones before the paperwork got so insistent. Winslow couldn't identify it from a picture. Several of his acquaintances had guns, but he didn't specifically remember this one. Nothing remarkable about it, really, just an older shotgun. It was definitely the murder weapon, even had some blood and tissue on the end of the barrel, but there was no useful name attached. Horatio thought that the killer had actually walked up to Angelina after blowing her face off and made sure to get some tissue on the barrel, the better to implicate Winslow when the gun was planted on Belle.

For just a moment, his mother's face flashed before his eyes, then changing into Calleigh's, just like his nightmare last night. He closed his eyes briefly, fortunately at a stoplight, and visualized both of them alive. He was practiced enough at this technique now that he could fairly quickly get rid of the images. Thanks to Calleigh.

Calleigh. Warm, alive, full of fire. He'd hurt her, he knew, and he hadn't wanted to. No, he wasn't going to let himself think of Calleigh. Too distracting and too nonproductive at the moment. Thinking of Calleigh couldn't help him.

The case, Horatio. Do your job. Focus.

Angelina Mitchell always dusted and vacuumed on Sunday afternoon, according to Winslow. Yet she hadn't the day of the murder. She wasn't murdered until around 11:00 p.m. Why had she departed from schedule? On the other hand, maybe she had lied to about her usual schedule to Winslow, who admitted he wasn't around many Sundays. Maybe her lover had had to change their usual rendezvous for some reason. Maybe the note had lied about the usual time of their trysts and picked late Sunday evening for the noise cover. Probably he had spent the whole day with her, taking time to get her relaxed and off guard before drugging her when they ate that evening. She had been heavily sedated at the time of her death. The lover was a foregone conclusion at this point and almost certainly was also the killer. They just needed a name.

He felt more sorry for Winslow Mitchell every time he saw him, and they'd had so many discussions by now with Horatio's frenetic activity on this case that the security guards at the holding cells were almost ready to give Horatio a key to the cell himself. Winslow blamed himself for Angelina's murder. Not only had he failed to go all the way up to the house Sunday night, where he might have met her killer, but he had obviously, from his point of view, failed her anyway as a husband, since she had found a lover. No, don't get sidetracked feeling sorry for Winslow. That won't help you, either, Horatio.

Focus. Stick with the case. You still have to do your job. That's the only thing you can do right now.

Had the killer been waiting somewhere watching for Winslow to approach the neighborhood? He might have wanted to make sure his note worked before actually committing the murder. No point in planting evidence on Belle if Winslow hadn't had a hole in his alibi. Angelina would have been drugged already by that point. The killer, like Mrs. Sampson, was probably watching from shadows somewhere. Knowing Winslow was around and had left again, he had gone back to the house and waited for the regularly scheduled noise disturbance to kill Angelina.

He'd made a mistake there, though. Winslow's timetable was far too tight to do everything involved with this murder and check in and out of the port when he did. The killer had misjudged him. Maybe he thought Winslow would drive around a while after he left the neighborhood, or more likely, he just wasn't thinking like a CSI.

Unlike Horatio, who should be thinking like a CSI and was having trouble with it. Focus. He couldn't let himself miss anything on this case just because of distractions.

He pulled up at the house, and one of the neighbors across the road waved to him. Horatio waved back. Almost everyone on the block knew him by now. Instead of going inside, he started around the yard, beginning with the bushes in back on the theory that the killer wouldn't have wanted to risk being seen exiting the front door. Unexpectedly, he struck gold almost immediately. The handgun was under the bush immediately outside the back door, and it was buried in the mulch with just enough showing to catch the eye of someone looking in the mulch. Horatio snapped on gloves and unearthed it. A 9-mm, fairly new, silencer attached, probably wiped down for fingerprints, but it might give him the one thing all his work on this investigation hadn't turned up yet: A name. Hopes rising a bit, he drove back to CSI.

(H/C)

When Calleigh got back to CSI, Eric was heading down to Ballistics. "Looking for me?"

"Yeah. I had the lover brought in, like you asked. Also the judge again, just to annoy him if nothing else."

Calleigh grinned. "Good thinking. I want to talk to him again. Even though I found a suspicious deposit in her account when I finished up the bank records search, there's no corresponding withdrawal in his."

"Maybe he's just smarter than she is at hiding it. I started on her while you were gone – where were you anyway?"

"I went out with Alexx for coffee," Calleigh replied, and her eyes dared him to comment.

He wasn't that brave. "Anyway, today, she admits that she was bought off and says the judge left for an hour that night. That might not be true, either. We know now she's a liar."

"Or maybe they both are. I wouldn't vote for him in a race against a lot of criminals I've met."

Eric grinned. "Me neither. So, let's go talk to these liars. They're in separate witness rooms, just waiting for you."

"Lead the way," Calleigh replied. "We'll take Lucia first. The judge can cool his heels." She followed Eric, but part of her mind was still fretting over Horatio.

(H/C)

Tripp met Horatio in the parking lot. "So, who is it we're going to see?"

"Steven Harris. He lives several streets from the Mitchells. Had you talked to him?" Tripp shook his head. "He is the registered owner of the handgun used in the murder – or after the murder. No fingerprints. Ballistics match. The gun was buried in mulch at the house."

"Been busy this morning," Tripp remarked as the Hummer headed out.

"Yes, I have. This could be the big break on this one. Winslow doesn't think he's the lover, but of course, he has trouble believing it of anybody he knows. I've pointed out that it has to be someone he knows; there's just too much knowledge of the neighborhood there. He'd still rather have it be a stranger, though."

"Anybody would," Tripp grunted. He eyed Horatio as the Hummer prowled its restless way through the streets. "You sleeping okay, H?"

Horatio hesitated. "Not really," he replied finally. No point in adding Tripp to the list of people he was being forced to lie to these days.

"Calleigh still mad?"

"Probably," Horatio said. "I can't blame her."

Tripp studied him further. Horatio's replies, while accurate, were clipped. He obviously didn't want to discuss it, so Tripp did the one thing his friend had known he would. He simply dropped the subject, and Horatio gave him a half smile a few minutes later at a stoplight.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

On they drove in silence, but the silence was a comfortable one.

(H/C)

Calleigh faced the judge's lover, a Hispanic woman wearing a slinky leather dress and enough eye shadow to paint a room. Eric, watching from the sidelines, couldn't help comparing the two of them. The gaudy but exaggerated advertisement versus the true article. Horatio was a lucky man.

"So, Lucia, if you accepted a payoff for a false alibi, why are you now admitting it?"

"I started feeling guilty," she said.

Calleigh leaned over the table, closing the distance. "You've got multiple arrests for prostitution before the judge 'bought' you full-time. You've had four marriages and God only knows how many lovers. You've had two children removed by the state, and you have no part at all in their lives, not even seeking supervised visitation. And you expect us to believe that lying to the police for a price is the one thing that suddenly made you develop a conscience?"

Lucia stuck her lip out in a stubborn pout. "I mean, she was murdered. I shouldn't lie for that."

"You did. If you accepted a payoff for alibi, even if you recant, at the moment you accepted it, you became an accessory to murder. That's a felony. We're processing a warrant right now, and with your bank account records and your conflicting statements, we have a cast-iron case for that. You're only hope is to take the man down with you. Who paid you off? Was it the judge or someone else?"

Lucia stared at her in sullen silence.

"You won't get that money, Lucia," Calleigh pointed out. "You can't profit from a crime. You'll be in jail, and even when you get out, those funds will have been frozen. You're not getting a payoff for this, not one you'll have a chance to enjoy."

The thought of wasted money got to her. "It won't still be in the bank later?" Eric snorted. Did people really expect the banks to keep paying interest on their admitted felony payoffs throughout their jail terms? Lucia's assets were clearly in areas besides intelligence.

"No," Calleigh replied. "The courts will determine the final financial details, but your account will be frozen. In fact, it probably already is. You couldn't walk from here – assuming we'd let you – straight to an ATM and get anything."

Lucia crumpled. "It wasn't the judge. It was his main rival in the election."

Calleigh sat back, taking out a notepad. "Now, we're getting somewhere. You might even get a deal made with the prosecutor. It won't let you keep the money, but it might cut your jail time."

"Why did you alibi the judge at first?" Eric asked.

"He said to tell that story first, then change it a few days later, only say the judge had been the one to pay me. He said the media story would be more effective and remembered that way. Two breaking headline stories instead of one. He said everybody would remember the judge in the campaign and would even be biased against the replacement candidate, so he'd win." She stuck her lip out again. "But he said I'd be able to keep the money, and he never said I'd have to go to jail. I never even got to spend it."

Eric spoke up from the end of the room. "Too bad."

(H/C)

The woman who opened the door to the Harris' house caught both men's attention immediately. Not that she was especially beautiful, but the eyes had a coldness that was rare, one they'd seen on a few outstanding criminals over the years. "Yes? What can I do for you, officers?"

"Mrs. Harris?" She nodded. "Is your husband home?"

"No, he isn't," she replied. "Can I help you with something?"

"Your husband have guns?" Tripp asked.

"Yes, several."

"This one?" Horatio showed her a picture of the 9-mm from the bush.

"Yes, I think he does have that one. I haven't seen it in a few days, though." She stepped back. "Come in, gentlemen. Have a seat."

Horatio and Tripp exchanged surreptitious glances as they sat down. This woman was reading from a mental script, one she had prepared. She'd expected them. "Mrs. Harris, where was your husband on Sunday night a week ago?"

"He was home except for one hour. He went out right around 12:30 and came back at 1:30. He was just taking a walk, he said, because he couldn't sleep."

"Have you ever had occasion to think he might be cheating on you?"

She laughed, a staged laugh. "I'm not blind. Yes, I knew he was cheating on me, but I wasn't sure who the woman was. It didn't really matter. I have his money; she can have him."

"Was his attitude strange at all when he returned home?"

"He seemed excited. Keyed up, somehow. He still didn't get to sleep for several hours. I assumed he had been out with her."

"Would it surprise you to learn that his gun was involved in a murder on that Sunday?"

She blinked her eyes in surprise. Horatio and Tripp, rating the performance, gave her high marks. "Well, I hadn't thought . . . you mean that Mitchell woman?"

That Mitchell woman, Horatio thought. There was real animosity there. She should have reconsidered that line in her script, or maybe it had slipped in. "Yes, this gun was involved at that scene. However, would it surprise you to also learn that Angelina" – he emphasized the name, and she flinched almost imperceptibly – "was actually murdered around 11:00 and with another gun? Your husband's gun isn't the murder weapon, and you yourself just gave him an excellent alibi for the time of the actual murder. That is, unless you want to reconsider your story."

They could see the mental wheels turning frantically. She had been knocked off her script, and she was much less talented at improvisation than at calculated fiction. "Why did you want to frame your husband for Angelina's murder, Mrs. Harris? Revenge? Money?"

She switched into self preservation. "I didn't kill her."

"No, you didn't, but you were there," Horatio insisted. "You came in to do it, and she was already dead. You made two big mistakes, though. First was kicking the shotgun shells under the bed – that was a fit of anger, and that action had a woman's marks all over it. A man would have reacted differently, even mad. Someone as smart as you are but not knocked off game plan and not angry would have picked up the shells and taken them away. You like to plan everything out, don't you, and aren't as good at thinking on your feet. Your second mistake was going ahead and trying to frame your husband anyway. Didn't you think we could tell which gun fired the fatal shot and which one was used first?"

"How could anybody tell anything from that?" she snapped. "She didn't even have a face left."

Tripp stood, shaking out the cuffs. "You're under arrest."

"For what?" she said. "Is shooting a dead body a crime?"

"Interfering with an investigation is," Horatio pointed out, "and I'm sure we can come up with several other things once we start thinking about it." She closed up at that and was obviously starting to plan her defense during the interval while the squad car Horatio called came to get her. After she had left, Tripp looked over at Horatio.

"So, we come here to question him and get her, but that 9-mm still didn't lead us to the real murderer."

Horatio was studying pictures on the wall, pictures of airplanes. "On the contrary, I think it did."

(H/C)

Steven Harris stared at the interview table. "What is going on here? I get home to find the cops on my doorstep and my wife under arrest."

"Actually, we never said we wanted to talk to you about your wife's involvement in this case. We just said we wanted to talk to you about this case." Horatio paced around behind the man's chair, deliberately looming over him. "I think, when we get a warrant for your DNA, that we will discover you had sex with Angelina Mitchell shortly before she was murdered."

"Doesn't mean I killed her," Steven replied. "Come on, they're old friends. I've known Winslow and Angelina for years, since he was in the military."

Horatio jumped on that. "Including the time he was presumed dead? Did you comfort his wife? Or was she just a girlfriend then?"

Steven wasn't as good at answers as his wife was. She'd prepared to talk to the police; he hadn't expected he'd have to. "We were friends, yes."

"Close friends?" Tripp suggested. "An inch or less?"

"Okay, so I'd had an affair with her for years, and yes, it started when Winslow was missing. That still doesn't mean I killed her."

"You own a private plane, right?"

"Right." He relaxed at that.

"And planes, like many boats, use high-octane fuel for high performance."

"So?" He obviously didn't know about the fuel traces on the shells.

"And you also are a great nephew of Charles Ponder, who owned a certain shotgun years ago. You privately acquired it from another relative. Your wife confirms this; I just asked her right before I came in here. She's a most cooperative witness. Ironic, that she was trying to frame you for a murder that you had already actually committed. You'll get the long sentence, Steven, and she'll get the house and your jointly held funds and assets."

Steven broke down there. "She's selling me out?"

"She's telling us the truth for once, but yes, she'll profit from it. You owned the shotgun that actually was the murder weapon, the gun that was then planted on Belle. Also, your fingerprints will probably match the few we found on Belle that weren't Winslow's. You wiped down the major surfaces, but you missed a few spots." Steven looked up at him, silent, but he realized now this was hopeless. "The thing I don't understand," Horatio continued, "is what you have against Winslow. Why frame him for Angelina's murder? You went to a lot of effort over it. Framing him was the main point of killing her, I think. Why?"

Steven clenched his hands together on the table. "You should have heard her. For years, I was loving her, I was there for her, and all she could talk about was what a good man he was. She felt guilty – not guilty enough to stop, but she still felt guilty. Winslow could do this. Winslow could do that. Winslow was honest, kind, smart, and so many other things he was one step below Superman. I was tired of it and tired of her, but she didn't want to quit. She wanted to love me but admire him. I just wanted to prove that there was at least one thing I could do better than he could."

Horatio looked at him coldly. "I hope you're satisfied," he stated. He nodded to the officer in the corner. "Book him."

Horatio turned and walked out the room. He had solved the case. In spite of all the other pressures he'd been under the last few days, he had managed to hold it together and do his job. A haze of tiredness settled over him like a blanket, and he shook it off, grabbing onto one thought like a lifeline. Calleigh. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted – no, needed – Calleigh. He reached for his cell phone.


	11. Chapter 11

"Love is not a study in unison but in harmony, and harmony by definition consists of different notes."

Deb, Hidden Fires

(I've never used a quote from myself before, but I couldn't resist that one for the end of this story. Don't bother trying to look it up; you won't find it. Hidden Fires is an original fiction mystery novel. It will come someday to a bookstore near you, as soon as I manage to get it published. I will let the fanfic community know when you can get it. In my best attempt at objective opinion, it is better than Fearful Symmetry.)

(H/C)

Calleigh was sitting at a table in Ballistics, frowning at paperwork. This was the part of an investigation that she hated most, and doing it in Ballistics was at least a bit better than doing it out at a layout table. Not that the proximity of her beloved guns was much comfort at the moment. She kept finding herself staring into space instead of filling out forms.

Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at it as she flipped it open. Horatio. "Hey."

"Hey." His greeting was as uncertain as hers. "I've got good news for you. The case is solved, the murderer has confessed, and Winslow is in the process of being released right now."

"Great." She tried and failed to put some enthusiasm into it. She was happy for Winslow, but he hadn't been the main problem on her mind for the last several days. She didn't even ask who the murderer was.

Horatio hesitated for a few seconds. "Listen, Calleigh, I was thinking I could pick up Rosalind and take her over to Alexx's. The two of us could use a night alone. We need to talk."

She stared at the paperwork. She was afraid to get her hopes up and just be disappointed. "We certainly need to. Do you really want to talk things through, or are you just going to tell me you can't?"

Another pause. "I know I deserve that, but I really do want to talk tonight, Calleigh."

She softened her tone. "Okay, then. You talk to Alexx and get Rosalind taken care of, and I've got to finish up this paperwork on the judge's case. I'll meet you at home in about an hour and a half."

"See you then. I love you."

"I love you, too." That much she was certain of. She still couldn't imagine why he'd been acting like he had, though. He'd sounded different on the phone, a little more like himself. Apparently, he was finally going to turn to her, just as Alexx had predicted.

After that conversation, she attacked the paperwork much more diligently, and it was going faster. Focused on her work, she didn't even notice anyone behind her until a throat cleared. She turned to see Winslow standing in the doorway. "Hi. Horatio called and told me you were being released. Congratulations." She stood up to face him.

"Thanks. For everything, Calleigh." Winslow shifted his weight slightly, looking momentarily as unsure of himself as Horatio had seemed the last few days.

"Not much point in thanking me. Horatio solved it." She felt a faint glow of pride even under the concern, annoyance, and confusion. "It wasn't my choice to go off the case, but he really is a better investigator than I am on the hard ones. He sees how things fit together."

"He's amazing," Winslow agreed with respect. "Is he here? You said he called."

"He had to go pick up Rosalind, and I had some paperwork to finish. We were just going to meet at the house."

"What did he tell you?" There was an odd intensity in his voice.

"Just that the case was solved and you were being released." Well, that wasn't all he had told her, but the rest wasn't Winslow's business.

Winslow took a deep breath. "I wanted to apologize to both of you. You being taken off my case wasn't Horatio's idea. I asked him to."

Calleigh dropped her pen. "What?"

"I asked him to." Winslow bent to pick up her pen and handed it back to her. "In fact, I really had a hard time talking him into it. He didn't want to, Calleigh. I had to appeal to him that my life was literally on the line here and I should have at least some say in it, as long as I wasn't trying to block the truth."

She realized that her mouth was hanging open and shut it. "Why would you ask Horatio to take over? Didn't you trust me with it?" All of her original hurt returned with a different source.

His warm, brown eyes were full of sincerity. "I trusted you absolutely, Calleigh. But I was weak. I couldn't stand to see you disappointed in me, like you were at that interview. With everything else going on, looking at you like that was the last straw. I deserved it, but I couldn't deal with it just then. And I was a little worried that you were too close to this one. But the real reason I did it was for me, so I wouldn't have to face you, wouldn't have to see you seeing me in that cell. I didn't even have the courage to tell you myself. I'm sorry, Calleigh."

Calleigh switched to procedural details to distract both of them from the turmoil of her feelings. "So after you were arrested, you sent a message to Horatio through somebody and then met with him." He nodded. "Why did you want him to take over? You didn't even know him. There are other investigators."

He smiled at her. "You know the answer to that one. I'd only met him once, but it was like seeing one oak tree in a line of shrubs. I knew he was the best. Really, I knew that before I met him. You picked him, after all."

Diversion wasn't working, and when she opened her mouth to say something else, all of her emotions suddenly took over, erupting with the one big question. "But why on earth didn't Horatio tell me you asked him to take me off the case?"

His eyes fell away from hers then. "Because I made him promise not to. Not until after the case was finished. He insisted on being released from it after the case was finished."

Understanding flooded through Calleigh like a dam bursting, washing away all the confusion and resentment on its powerful course. He couldn't tell her. The whole time, she'd had a clue that she hadn't even picked up on. He had never said he didn't want to talk but that he couldn't. Horatio had promised Winslow not to mention the request, and he was incapable of manufacturing a lie to tell her as a substitute. No wonder he had been so consumed with trying to finish the case as quickly as possible. Poor Horatio.

"Calleigh?" She realized that she had closed her eyes and opened them. "Say something, Calleigh. Yell at me if you want; I deserve it. But say something."

She glared at him. "Do you have any idea what you've put him through the last few days?"

He shifted his weight guiltily. "Some. And you, too. I knew you trusted him, though, even if he didn't seem to make sense for a little while." Calleigh flinched. "Like I said, I was weak. I just couldn't face you myself. I'd let Angelina down, and when I disappointed you, too, I just . . ." He trailed off into silence, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I knew he could take it better than I could. He'd be better at anything than I would. And I knew he'd solve it quickly."

"And you pulled me from the visitor's list yourself." He nodded. She winced, remembering how furious she had been at Horatio for that. He probably hadn't even known until she'd confronted him, and any defense he could have given would have led to breaking his promise. Just like her question to him Thursday night, whether he could tell her that he was doing this purely for the sake of the investigation with no personal feelings at all involved. She hadn't specified whose feelings, and for him to split that hair would have given Winslow away. He'd had no choice but to say nothing. And then she'd raked him over the coals for suspecting her when he didn't. In so many ways, she'd made things even more difficult for him.

"I'm sorry," Winslow repeated. "I couldn't take you seeing me behind bars. If you knew I'd asked to have you replaced, you'd either have insisted on coming to see me to talk about it, or you would have thought I didn't trust you. I couldn't deal with that while I was being suspected of Angelina's death. Too much was happening at once, and I just couldn't take it. I'm sorry, Calleigh."

She wasn't quite ready to forgive him. "So if you didn't want to tell me, why are you here now?"

"I'm a selfish coward, Calleigh, but I realized after they let me out that I couldn't just let him apologize for me. Forgive me, please."

Her eyes held him. "You owe Horatio an apology, too. A big one."

"That's why I hoped to find you both here. You said you were about to go home. Could I come along just for a few minutes to talk to him?"

Home. Realization swept over her like a benediction that she could go home, any time, and that Horatio was still Horatio. He had never been anything else, even the last few days. He was waiting for her. After what Winslow – and she herself – had put him through, he needed her. Nothing had changed for them, and with some rest and reassurance, he would be fine. It would be so easy to fix things and go on now that she knew the full story. She had to get home. Like a bullet being slipped out of the chamber when it is no longer needed, her gaze softened and released Winslow. "Come by CSI tomorrow morning. Horatio and I are going to have an evening to ourselves tonight." And she also had an apology to make first, without Winslow as an audience.

He nodded, respecting her space, just as he'd always done physically. "I'll do that. I am sorry, Calleigh. For everything. Can we still be friends?"

"Of course. Nobody's perfect, Winslow. I shouldn't have expected you to be. But you're still a true friend. I don't know what I would have done without you in Darnell. I never did think you were guilty." She hesitated. "I really am sorry about Angelina." She didn't limit it to her death. Winslow had also been betrayed.

He shuddered slightly. "I'm probably going to be moving out of Miami. Too many memories here. But you'll be one of the good ones. I wish I could have met your daughter."

Calleigh smiled. "I wish you could have, too. Maybe we'll bring her in tomorrow morning for a little bit so you can see her. Don't be surprised if she doesn't seem to take to you, though. She takes time to accept people."

He smiled. "Wonder where she got that from?"

Calleigh returned the smile. She opened her arms, and he hugged her. "It's okay, Winslow. I do understand. I'm sure Horatio did, too." He never blamed anyone except himself for weakness. Horatio. She might have been holding Winslow at the moment, but her arms longed for her husband.

After a minute, Winslow released her. "Take care of Horatio, Calleigh. I know he'll take care of you."

"I will." She smiled at him. "Now, I really need to finish up this paperwork and get home. Come by first thing in the morning, Winslow, and I'll try to have Rosalind here for you."

"See you then." He turned and left, and Calleigh returned her attention to the suddenly unimportant paperwork. She put the pen down firmly and closed the file. Prestige case or not, it could wait until the morning. She was going home.

(H/C)

She opened the door and pushed her way through hurriedly, barely remembering to kick it closed with a foot as she entered the house. Horatio came out of the kitchen, followed by a savory smell. "Hey. You're a little earlier than you said you'd be. I meant to have it all ready for you." He still looked exhausted but much better, the eyes clearer. He wasn't being torn in two directions anymore. How could she have failed to see the struggle in him the last few days every time he refused to talk to her? He stopped several feet away from her, and Calleigh crossed the living room to him, closing the distance.

"There are more important things than paperwork. The judge can wait." She embraced him fiercely, trying to bury all of the misunderstandings in the strength of her grasp, her lips eagerly seeking his. He was startled but willingly returned it. When she finally broke away, he smiled at her, his old smile with the relaxed quirk about it that she loved.

"I'm glad to see you, too," he said. "Calleigh, I . . ."

She pressed her finger to his lips. "No, you don't have to say anything. Just listen. First, Winslow stopped at CSI on his way out. He told me everything. Second, I'm the one who needs to apologize. I'm so sorry, Horatio. I know how much you trust me. I should have trusted you, even if I didn't understand."

"You did trust me, Calleigh."

She frowned slightly. "I did?"

"Yes. I have absolute proof. You haven't actually shot me, attacked me, quit your job, or even moved onto the couch at any point in the last four days."

She laughed. "Boy, that's the height of trust. We ought to write that definition down and send it to marriage seminars."

He laughed along with her, then turned suddenly, hurrying back into the kitchen. "I'm forgetting what I'm doing in here. Maybe we should just let it burn and order out later."

"And ruin all your hard work?" She followed him. "What is it, anyway?"

"Grilled salmon with a light sauce."

"You're making my mouth water, Horatio. Both the meal and the dessert." She gave him a playful squeeze.

"Sure you don't want to just let it burn?"

She tossed her hair back. "No, but let's see if I can help you get everything ready faster." She opened a cabinet and took out plates, then got a bottle of wine. Horatio had already provided candles.

As she opened the wine and started pouring, he said, "I really wanted to tell you, Calleigh. I just couldn't. I knew you'd misunderstand, but it was just temporary, and he said he absolutely couldn't face you anymore, couldn't stand the thought of letting you down. I used to have nightmares about letting you down myself. I couldn't tell him no. Not with everything else he had to deal with, not when I knew it would only be for a few days. I'm sorry for putting you through that."

"I know. It's okay, Horatio. It's been much harder for you. I can't believe some of the things I said to you, and all the time, you were working that hard just so you could talk to me." She finished pouring and came over to him, holding out one glass. "I promise, if you ever have to keep me in the dark about anything again, I'll try to do a better job trusting."

"And I promise to not keep you in the dark about things unless exceptional circumstances force me to." Their glasses clinked together on the vow. "There never was any jealousy there, Cal. Why should there be? I have you."

Calleigh smiled. "Once, back in Darnell, I thought Winslow would be the ideal man to marry, but even then, he was just a wonderful friend. The chemistry wasn't there. After I met you, though, it made me think of him. You're a lot alike, in some ways."

He nodded. "I could see that. So I reminded you of him?"

She shook her head. "You've got it backwards, Horatio. From the beginning, he reminded me of you, even before I met you. I knew what I wanted was him plus the fire, and that was you. You don't remind me of anyone but yourself, because there's nobody else on earth who can hold a candle to you." She took his wine glass and set it safely with hers on the table, then kissed him as the salmon sizzled away in the background. The dinner was perfection. Dessert was even better.

Next on Fearful Symmetry: "Morning." Just another routine morning for the Caine family. One-shot fluff piece. I'm incapable of maintaining pure fluff longer than one chapter, but I think you'll really enjoy this one.


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